


All My Life is Wrapped Up In Today (No Past or Future)

by VeteranKlaus



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Memory Loss, Number Five | The Boy has PTSD, Psychosis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:48:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23461237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeteranKlaus/pseuds/VeteranKlaus
Summary: Five returns to his siblings intending to stop an Apocalypse with only a prosthetic eyeball and a journal with the wordREMEMBERscrawled across the front cover in his own blood.
Comments: 60
Kudos: 217





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fic that isn't focused on beating up Klaus, from me? Who would have guessed - instead I'm beating up Five now :(  
> Anywho, aside from this first chapter the following ones will be equal to canon episodes, and I have it planned out and a few chapters pre-written, so I will try to spread them out a bit between updates.

The act of time travel is, as Reginald Hargreeves has always said, incredibly complex.

Five had first learned that he could manipulate time when he was seven years old and he was racing his siblings. His spatial jumps were iffy at best, typically left him weak in the knees, nauseas and disorientated and, often times, not exactly where he intended. He was still grappling with his control of it through his training sessions with Reginald, and his father all but encouraged him to use it whenever he could, even if his siblings might dub him a cheater.

Five is not a cheater. Five simply adapts.

And so, when he is put in a situation where one must reach a certain place before the others to claim victory and the rare half-praise of his father, which was less of a praise and more of not being included in his lecture of disappointment for once, he must win, and he can ‘cheat’.

However, as he begins to run on short legs and clenches his hands into fists, focusing desperately on the target ahead of himself and willing space to bend to his will, it does not happen. What happens instead is his siblings become incredibly slow. They run in slow motion at a snail’s pace, their faces creased with effort and determination, and Five pauses to stand still and watch their ridiculous attempts to win.

He wonders why they are moving so incredibly slowly and ponders, for a moment, that this is all some stupid prank; that they are all messing about with their valuable training time, but when he looks around and takes in his surroundings he finds that everything is moving in slow motion. His father standing by their target, Vanya by his side, the swinging rope of the stop-watch in her hand and the bird overhead that almost seems to be hovering.

His siblings are not moving incredibly slowly. _Time_ is.

Five does what he always does; he adapts.

He runs to the target, standing just beside his oblivious father, and then all at once the world explodes back to life. The bird caws and flies swiftly away, the rope on the stop-watch swings swiftly from Vanya’s hand, and his sibling’s feet pound into the earth only to falter when they realise Five has already won.

Five is only looking at Reginald, however.

Five wins, and his reward is to be taken up to his father’s office to describe what happened and to begin training his control on time.

Controlling the speed of time is one thing. It is not particularly interesting to Five any more than something to study. He masters the control of it by ten years old and uses it when he and his siblings go to stop criminals, and it works well in addition to the use of his ability to manipulate space.

What is more interesting to Five is the ability to time travel. Ben has read novels where characters have done this and the ability to visit the past and the future is fascinating. He considers, for a while, the concept of immortality, and how that might work. He considers the ability to interfere with history, to warn others of the future, to follow the flowing branch of time against the grain, and the idea of alternate timelines; of following branches that have not happened in his timeline.

The knowledge he could have with the ability to travel through time is powerful enough to make him light-headed, even at eleven years old.

However, it is not like spatial jumps; it is not like controlling the natural flow of time; it is going against it and fighting against something he cannot truly wrap his mind around, something on a cosmic level. The ability to tear apart his atoms and smash them together in a different place, the ability to make a gap through space and bring it closer to him rather than moving himself, or to step into the limbo between space and travel a thousand miles in a single step, along with the ability to follow time’s natural flow but simply slow it down; none of that is like battling against time, which does not welcome his interference, which fights against him like trying to swim up Niagra Falls.

But Five is clever. Five is a genius. Five mastered manipulating space and the speed of time before he was twelve. Five is incredibly smart, but he is head-strong, hungry for knowledge and impatient. He ignores his father’s lectures, his threats of punishments should he disobey him and try to interfere with time when he isn’t ready.

He ought to have listened to him.

The first two times he travels is deceptively easy. He becomes cocky, and he does it again, and it is akin to time running into him like a freight train; running _through_ his very being and dragging him with it, spreading him out thin and kicking him out in the Apocalypse. The air, thick with ash and smoke, is mocking and taunting. The universe that Five has been able to manipulate for years has gotten its revenge on him, put him in his place as a foolish, brash child, and showed him that the natural order of time is not to be messed with. A child does not possess the strength enough to bend time entirely to their will.

The Apocalypse is, easily, his worst nightmare.

He figures out the date easily enough, and then he can conclude easily that the corpses he finds are his siblings as adults, save for Vanya and Ben who he never finds. It takes him days to bury his siblings. He keeps the prosthetic eye from Luther’s hand in his pocket, on his body with him at all times.

And then, at some point, his mind begins to slip.

He forgets for weeks why there are graves and why he feels the need to visit them so strongly. He forgets why there is a prosthetic eye in his pocket. He forgets where it came from. He wakes up one morning and he cries silent tears to see the Academy in ruins around him, his siblings missing. He stares at _Extra Ordinary_ written by Vanya Hargreeves and he can’t wrap his mind around how his thirteen year old sister wrote a book, why it is here, and who the woman pictured on it is.

He owes a lot to that book, however. He rereads the chapter on himself until he can recite it word for word.

At thirteen years old, he disappeared. How old is he now? He doesn’t know. Why did he disappear? He must have time travelled and he is stuck. Something bad happened and he needs to get back and he needs to stop this Apocalypse, he needs to save his siblings. Ben died. He needs to go back and save Ben, too.

The book, too, gives him the idea of a journal when he is coherent enough to realise what is happening to him.

Time travelling has messed with his head. He can’t quite tell how. Perhaps it is pure stress and strain put on it, perhaps it is colliding with another version of his consciousness. He doesn’t know, but it does not get better. So, he begins to write. As soon as he manages to find a pen in the ruins of a hotel, and then, later, an empty book, he begins to write. Not the unimportant things; he doesn’t waste the space. He writes what he needs to know.

_Ben died. Need to save him._

_On April 1 st, the world ends. My siblings die together despite Vanya claiming they have not been all together for years. Therefore, a threat, one large enough – obvious enough? – to bring them back together. Luther dies with a prosthetic eye in his hand; likely torn from the person who caused the Apocalypse. _

_T_ _(_ _E_ _)=_ _e_ _−_ _22_ _m_ _ℏ_ _2_ _(_ _V_ _0_ _−_ _E_ _)_ _√_ _(_ _x_ _2_ _−_ _x_ _1_ _)=_ _V_ _~−(_ _x_ _2_ _−_ _x_ _1_ _)_ _0_ _T(E)=e−22m_ _ℏ_ _2(V0−E)(x2−x1)=V~0−(x2−x1)_

_Wrong. It’s all wrong._

He fills pages with equations. Scribbles them out because he is wrong, wrong, wrong. He fills pages with his desire for clean water. He writes a letter to his siblings asking for their help. He writes things he never remembers writing, nor why, nor to who. He writes in different languages when English doesn’t have the right word to describe the hunger he feels when his stomach has been empty for nearly three weeks. When the pen runs out and he has no other, he uses a knife to prick his fingers and uses his own blood. But he keeps the journal on him at all times. He reads it when he wakes up, he reads it multiple times each day when he can’t make sense of anything.

In a fit of hysteria, he cuts his fingers and scrawls _REMEMBER_ over the journal.

He can’t ever remember doing it.

Some days his mind reforms and settles back in his skull and he is vaguely horrified at the rambling he has written; horrified to see the shatters of his mind, in the same crumbling ruins as those around him.

Ultimately, though, he always has the reminder of what he needs to do. Unless his mind is stuck thinking he is thirteen again, or thinking nothing in particular, nothing coherent, he is still able to work towards his goal of returning to his siblings and averting this Apocalypse. Perhaps going back in time will fix his mind, too. He knows it doesn’t work like that, however, but he allows himself to hope sometimes.

Then there is the Commission. He joins them because he knows he will die in the Apocalypse soon. He joins them because The Handler outstretches a hand and says, “I can fix your mind, too.” Pages of his journal rapidly fill with information about the Commission; the details, their rules, the ins and outs of it, but The Handler sticks by her promise. His memory is as sharp as ever now; hardly has a single slip-up.

He kills, and he is good at it. Great at it. The best out of everyone there, and they know it. He never trusts the Commission, but he is great at deceiving people, and he gains their trust instead. At least somewhat, although he thinks the Handler knows not to trust him. But the Handler promises a reward for his service; a reward of returning to his family and of remembering again.

He doesn’t trust it.

He can’t trust anyone except himself and his journal and the eye. Decades condense into moments of coherency and moments of incoherency. Days pass in blinks. The journal remains under his fingertips, urging him onwards, keeping him composed. It tells him all he needs to know. Return to his family; avert the Apocalypse.

And then the day comes. Coherency slips into his grasp and the chain of equations he is scrambling down clicks into place and the shackles time has locked onto him suddenly break.

He digs his fingers into the flow of time, and he drags himself back through it in a similar fashion to the way he had crawled with the last of his strength to a nearby water source in the Apocalypse, with the same desperation.

Time gives below him and he tumbles into a courtyard, body aching, surrounded by people who ought to be corpses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this, feel free to leave a kudos or a comment and let me know what you thought!


	2. Ghost Towns

Five blinks dots from his vision, still dazzled by the blinding light of time and space, and he lets his gaze jump rapidly around him. He is in the courtyard of the Academy. It is dark, and the Academy is still standing, and all of his siblings are around him, staring with shocked expressions at him. Except for Ben. He notices the statue beyond them and his stomach churns. He is too late to save Ben.

He recognises their faces from the hazy memory of their corpses, and that thought makes him jolt. He might not have much time, then, if they looked the same as they did when they died.

He scrambles upright onto his feet, struggling now that his clothes seem to drown him. His hand holding his journal to his side, hidden beneath his suit jacket, is small, free of spots from the sun and wrinkles from age. His body has changed – not a variable he accounted for, but the ache in his knees and his back is gone, and it will be easier to move about like this. He will have to see exactly just how young he looks later.

His head spins from the exertion of time travel and so he walks indoors, bypassing his siblings for the more pressing matter of figuring out the date. For all he knows the apocalypse is tomorrow and he has only hours to do this.

His siblings follow him closely like a herd, all of them piling into the kitchen. Five falters at the sight of the kitchen. If he had expected to be assaulted by memories, he is wrong. The sense of familiarity comes creeping up his skin likes spiders, but that is all. Mostly it is simply shock and urgency at being in a kitchen with the knowledge that the food inside is available to him. And he is hungry.

“What’s the date?” He asks his siblings. He pauses, testing how he feels; rocking on the balls of his feet he tests his balance, and then he squints his eyes and focuses inward, testing the feel of his powers. But he is able to glance back at a cutting board and bring it to him with a flicker of blue, space condensing and bringing it right to his hand. Satisfied, he sets it on the table and clarifies to his siblings, “the exact date.”

“The twenty-fourth,” says Vanya. Five leaves the cutting board, going for the nearest thing his eyes land on; the bread. As he pulls two pieces out, he asks;

“Of _what_?”

“March.”

He purses his lips. The Apocalypse is in…

It’s in…

His brows furrow. It is soon. He can’t quite remember when. One of his hands sneak beneath his jacket, fingers running over the leather of his journal, and he turns his back to his siblings to hide it from their view as he tugs it out. Opening it to the first page, his eyes run over the information jotted down. April 1st. He has seven days, if he doesn’t include this evening.

He slips the journal back inside his jacket, exhaling quietly, and continues to busy his hands making food. Seven days. It is not ideal, but it still gives him some time. He’ll simply have to be efficient, and Five is always efficient. Part of the reason The Handler had loved him so much; he was given his job and he completed it without any hassle or delay and adapted to the situation at hand.

He has to swallow down the urge to turn and talk to his siblings, to get to know them once more, to simply talk and simply relax with the family he has spent so long getting back to. He has work that is more important and time sensitive. He will have time to talk to them once he has averted this apocalypse.

Returning to the laid out food on the table, busying his hands with making a sandwich. As his mind wanders, they move mostly of their own accord, propelled on by deep hidden memories of a time before the apocalypse. If he had the time to pause and consider making a proper meal for himself, he isn’t sure what he would make; what he would want. The Commission had a cafeteria where he would get the same food from it each time he went. On hits and missions he would prioritise the task at hand and often times just wait until he returned to the Commission to eat there, or if the mission went on long enough he would get food where it allowed for it, anything that required little to no preparation so he could eat it as quickly as possible and continue with the job. The idea of now having a kitchen left open and available to him is nearly daunting, and so he doesn’t let himself think about that.

“So, are we gonna talk about what just happened?” Luther asks, breaking through his thoughts and stealing his attention. Although Five hears him, he focuses more on making his food. Trying to explain where he has been and how he got back will take too long and will result in too many questions that he either cannot answer or doesn’t want to. And he knows, anyway, that his family won’t understand. The intricacies of space and time are too complex for them to wrap their minds around and Five doesn’t have the time nor is he willing to try and explain it to them.

With no response from him, Luther rises abruptly to his feet as if he thinks his size might intimidate Five into talking. “It’s been seventeen years,” he declares, and Five bristles despite himself. It isn’t his siblings’ fault that they don’t know where he’s been, though he would have liked to imagine that they are smart enough to conclude that he hadn’t died or simply disappear. Then again, after reading Vanya’s book (multiple times) it seems that his siblings didn’t grow up to be rational adults.

Five turns finally to face Luther, having to crane his head up to meet his eyes, and realises suddenly that being stuck in his thirteen year-old body might end up more of a nuisance than he had thought. “It’s been a lot longer than that,” he tells Luther, and around his side he sees a bag of marshmallows he needs sitting on a shelf. Hardly taking as much effort as a blink, Five appears by the shelf to grab it, ignoring whatever it is Luther mutters.

“Where’d you go?” Asks Diego, but his brother refuses to look at him and his tone is something Five doesn’t like. Bitter. As if Five intended to miss out on seventeen years of their life. He has to remind himself that Five understands what they don’t, and that there are things bigger than his siblings’ opinions of him. Diego can be misinformed and resent him if he wants to; Five is here now, and he has a job to do.

“The future,” he states, giving them a little insight into his life. If they are clever, they’ll take the insight and its implications and come up with a story that they are content with believing. “It’s shit, by the way,” he adds, if only to lighten the situation and deflect any questions. Space bends and he is once more by the table, laying out his food. He needs one more ingredient, and he reaches out to the refrigerator to find it.

He can’t help but let his mind wander, and he has to force himself to focus on his food rather than the feeling of dust and dirt beneath his nails, of rubble digging into his palms, scrabbling to pull slabs of debris off his siblings’ corpses. He blinks a few times, focusing on the hum of the refrigerator as he mutters, “I should have listened to Dad.” Swiping food from the fridge, he finally returns once more to the table and begins finally piecing together his food. He pauses, allowing his eyes to finally look up and scan each one of his siblings, fast enough that they don’t linger and don’t let emotions bubble up within him, but his gaze eventually comes to rest on the sibling sat upon the kitchen table. Absently, he comments, “nice dress.”

Klaus, who had been looking half asleep and most definitely contently too spaced out for this conversation, perks up at that as if he has been pinched awake, and his face brightens slightly. One of his hands travel down his clothes, fiddling with an accessory on it. “Oh, well, danke,” he says with a hint of a smile.

“Wait, wait,” says Vanya. Five butters the bread evenly, watching it spread out beneath the blunt knife. “How did you get back?” She asks. One of the questions he had expected them to ask, but arguably not one of the first ones.

Huffing, Five ponders the way to word his answer for them before simply stating the truth; “In the end, I had to project my consciousness forward into a suspended quantum state version of myself that exists across every possible instance of time.”

And, as expected, none of his siblings quite know how to respond to that. That was really the intention, though. He keeps his tone and behaviour dismissive; spreads peanut butter out onto one slice of bread evenly. Then; “that doesn’t make sense.”

“It would if you were smarter.”

Diego’s temper certainly only seems to have taken a turn for the worst. He had read so in Vanya’s book, he isn’t surprised to see it. Maybe a little disappointed. He isn’t necessarily surprised at what has come of his siblings, but he isn’t sure it’s his place to comment on how they turned out when he isn’t any better.

“How long were you there for?” Luther asks him, and the pause Five makes is unnoticeable to them. His hand stills in the air on its way to reach for the marshmallows for hardly a split second before continuing. How long was he there for? He had tried to mark the days on the walls but often times he forgot to do so, and eventually he gave up and every day seemed to just blur into one continuous moment.

“Four decades. Give or take a few years,” he finally settles on, because it feels right, and it succeeds in making his siblings pause; Luther and Diego fall back into their seats and Klaus gapes at him with wide eyes. Allison looks mildly concerned and Vanya looks still confused.

“So, what, you’re saying you’re fifty-three?”

“No,” Five sighs. He puts a marshmallow onto bread, and then another, and another. “My consciousness is fifty-three, give or take. Apparently my body is now thirteen again.” He puts the two pieces of bread together and wanders a few steps aside; he peers out the window, eying the sky that has begun to brighten only slightly after the storm he caused, tearing through time and space. He dismisses Vanya’s question with a grunt, and turns back to his siblings. Biting into his sandwich and having flavour burst on his tongue that he hasn’t tasted in too long, he swipes up the newspaper on the table to eye his father’s picture nearly taking up the whole page.

“I missed the funeral, then?”

“How’d you know about that?” Asks Luther, and Five gives him a look.

“Heart failure, huh?”

Luther says no just at the same time as Diego says yes, and the two of them share a warning look with the other. Quirking an eyebrow, Five sighs and turns on his feet.

“Glad to see nothing’s changed,” he comments, and with that he makes his exit, feet carrying him towards the door.

“Is that it?” Allison asks over his shoulder. “Is that all you have to say?”

Not hesitating in his step, Five responds; “what else is there to say?”

He leaves them, then, eating his sandwich on the way out. He needs to sit down and come up with a plan, now. And, ideally, get some fitting clothes; the suit he had been wearing now hangs off his smaller frame, and to avoid tripping his way up the stairs he ends up thrusting himself through space to land into his bedroom.

He plants his feet firmly on the ground, pausing, looking around the place as a wave of nostalgia hits him. His room evidently hasn’t been touched since the day he left. There are even old equations still scrawled across his walls in chalk. The lack of dust in the room shows that Grace has evidently still kept on top of the room, and despite the things on his dresser, the writing on the walls, the full wardrobe, the room has an eerily unlived in air to it. He almost feels like an intruder as eh stands in it, as if he has stepped into the bedroom of someone who is deceased. He tries not to think about Ben’s room one door down from his.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, he takes another bite of his sandwich and goes to his wardrobe, pulling it open. He falters at the sight in front of him; perfectly hung up uniforms, and nothing else. He isn’t sure what he should have expected, really. With nothing better, Five begrudgingly pulls his old uniform on, telling himself it isn’t so different from the suit he is used to wearing. He does his tie and puts it perfectly into place, and he pauses by the mirror to eye himself. It doesn’t feel as wrong as he thought it would to look in the mirror and see his thirteen year-old reflection staring back at himself.

He supposes, however, that before The Handler had stepped in and smoothed over the cracks in his mind, he had never been entirely sure of his own age; had woken up in the apocalypse some days expecting to wake up in his bed in the academy, confused and afraid, wondering where his siblings were and where his father was.

So when he glares at his reflection and it glares back, and he doesn’t feel so unsettled to not see his older body, he decides it most definitely is not a good sign. But he shoves that aside for now, finishes his food, and sits down on his old bed.

He has seven days to avert an apocalypse, if he doesn’t include this evening which he knows will likely be spent trying to settle into the academy, settle back into his siblings’ lives, and figure things out. He has set his journal on the bed beside him and, next to that, there is a little wad of cloth. He reaches out, nimble fingers opening up the cloth in the palm of his hand and staring down at the prosthetic eye hidden inside it.

Like always, tension bleeds out of his body when he sees the eye safe, in perfect condition, and when he turns it over the serial number on it is perfectly legible. There is hardly so much of a scratch on it, save for the few it had when he found it, and he can roll it smoothly between his fingers, can picture it in Luther’s dead clutch like when he found it. Someone is going to lose an eye, and that person is going to bring about the end of life on earth. The only thing he has to go on is this eye, and that it was manufactured in a place called Meritech. That will be his first stop, then; he’ll go, he’ll find the records one way or another, find where the owner of the eye lives and kill them. In theory, that should avert the apocalypse; it eliminates the major role in the apocalypse, or so he assumes. But he will stay on alert for the rest of the week, and once the first of April passes and the world remains whole and everyone alive, he will allow himself to exhale and he can live again. Maybe.

He carefully hides the eye within its cloth and slips it into his pocket, and then he lifts his journal. His blazer has a pocket inside which is only just big enough to fit it in, and so he tucks it tightly against himself, letting his fingers run over the leather cover and feel reassured by the sensation of it beneath his touch. He has everything he needs no matter what might happen within the following few days.

Feeling a little more sure and steady with himself, and less dizzy and nauseous from time travel, able to shove aside the familiar headache that accompanies it, he leaves his old bedroom and takes his time wandering down the corridor, retracing old steps. He pauses by Vanya’s room, and then his eyes bounce to the open door of Klaus’ and his eyebrows furrow. There is a clear line where a wall has been knocked down; expanding Klaus’ room into hers and getting rid of it completely. Leaning half-out the window, too, he sees who he only assumes is Klaus himself; out the window he can see one of his hands waving theatrically, a cigarette pinched between his index and middle finger, and he can hear him talking to no one. Pursing his lips, Five continues walking away down the corridor.

At the foot of the stairs he simply lingers, hands in his pockets, eying the front doors he had run out of decades ago, so oblivious to what he was running into.

Five walks into the living room. Hanging on the wall opposite the door he is confronted by a portrait of himself. Vaguely, he remembers Vanya describing the day Reginald put the portrait up in her book. To commemorate his memory or to use him as an example of what happens when one disobeys Reginald, she had wondered.

He wanders up to it, hanging above the lit fireplace, to get a closer look at it. He wonders if it was done by the same artist he would hire to make the family portraits of them all. He wondered what Reginald truly thought of Five’s disappearance, if he cared even just a sliver.

Soft footsteps echo down the hall and pause just outside of the living room, hesitating, before deciding to wander close. Half-turning, Five comments, “nice to see Dad didn’t forget me.”

Vanya comes up to him, words hovering on the tip of her tongue that remain unsaid, and so Five continues. “I read your book, by the way,” he tells her. “Found it in a library that was still standing. I thought it was pretty good, all things considered. Definitely ballsy. Giving up the family secrets. I’m sure that went over well.”

He sees the way Vanya falters at that comment, as if hurt by the idea that Five wouldn’t jump to support her decision, but rather than remaining silent she says, “they hate me.”

Five doesn’t doubt that. Had he been here, he would have been against her publishing it, too. There were things that didn’t need to be said and things that didn’t need to be said the way she said them. Needlessly cold, trying to get back at everyone for the years of being the family outcast, some things Five had been surprised she would be willing to say. Then again, while the rest of his siblings might have argued Vanya too quiet and gentle to say such things – and she was – Five knew there was a part to her that was already bitter by thirteen with her place in the family. It was only inevitable that that bitterness would grow over the years.

“Oh,” he says, glancing aside. “There are worse things that can happen.”

“You mean like what happened to Ben?” Ruthless, Vanya doesn’t miss a beat before saying that. It gives Five a moment of pause. He had intended to come back to an earlier time; to come back before Ben had died, so that he could save all of them. He admits, now, that it was a bit of a fantasy he had built up in his head; he would return and he would save Ben from his death, he would save Klaus from his addiction, Luther wouldn’t isolate on the moon for four years (by the fourth year in the apocalypse, Five had Delores, at least, but even her company wasn’t enough all the time. But at least he had her). His siblings would learn to grow together, perhaps, rather than grow up to be these bitter adults around him now.

“Was it bad?” He asks her, his voice softening. He can remember Ben now. He was quiet, his nose stuck in a book, and he was good to talk to and a good listener. He didn’t talk much and he was the negotiator and peace-maker of the siblings. No one could say no to Ben or upset him. Every so often, out of the blue, never failing to startle any of the siblings, he would make an incredibly witty comment beyond his age, a sparkle to his eyes and tilt to his lips akin to a smirk.

Five will never forgive himself for not being there to see the kind of person Ben grew up to be, and for not being able to give his brother another chance at life.

His thoughts, when reading about Ben’s death in Vanya’s book, had briefly strayed to Klaus. Vanya had written about the things Klaus had said and done, and the things he had said about Ben had been written in great detail.

_With bloodshot eyes, tone nearly hysterical as if he had driven himself nearly mad with grief, or nearly mad with the need for attention, Klaus had gestured wildly to the thin air beside him and proclaimed; “Ben is right there! I can see him!” But Klaus was high, and in Klaus’ own words, Klaus could not see any ghosts when he was high. Klaus was lying. Again. It shouldn’t have surprised anyone. It didn’t surprise me._

With childish hope, Five would wonder if maybe, just maybe, Klaus wasn’t lying. He and Ben hadn’t been overly close at thirteen, but not even Klaus, chronic liar and drug addict as he was, would extort his brother’s gruesome death for a need for nothing but attention.

Wordlessly, Vanya nods her head, and Five wanders a few steps away, pursing his lips. Swallowing, Vanya speaks up again. “Why didn’t you come back?” She asks. Five quirks an eyebrow at her.

“I tried that,” he states, tone defensive. “I tried that for years. But Dad was right; time travel is complex. I wasn’t ready to do it and I couldn’t come back until now.”

Vanya pauses, nods. “And you’re okay?”

He doesn’t expect that. He narrows his eyes slightly as if scrutinising her might be able to let him know the intentions behind that question, though he knows it is nothing more than simple, genuine care, and so he nods. “I’m fine. I’m just glad to be back now.” His eyes flick aside, watching the doors as he hears heavy footsteps echo down the stairs.

Luther appears with Allison by his side and an urn in his hands. He pauses, looking into the living room, and then he nods his head towards the courtyard. He can hear more footsteps coming down the stairs as Diego and Grace appear, following them out and, trailing behind, Klaus.

Sighing, he says to Vanya, “let’s go.”

With rain battering down outside, Five grabs one of the black umbrellas from the stand by the door, eying Klaus’ choice of an umbrella only briefly, and then follows everyone outside. Vanya leaves his side to stand near Grace and he is left between Allison and Klaus. Luther steps into the centre of the shoddy semi-circle they have formed around him, shifting his grip on Reginald’s urn, and as he readies himself to speak, Grace cuts him off.

“Did something happen?” She asks, a smile on her lips as she looks over the solemn faces of everyone else.

“Dad died,” Allison states, confused. “Remember?”

Grace’s expression falters, turning sad. “Oh, yes. Of course,” she utters, and to Diego, Allison asks;

“Is Mom okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Diego says, dismissive. “She just needs to rest. Y’know, recharge.” Already Diego must be soaked to the bone. His hair plastered to his face, jacket not even done up – he’ll drag water in everywhere once they go back inside. Beside Five, Klaus pulls out another cigarette and holds it between his lips.

Before anyone can say anything about Grace’s slip up, Pogo makes his way to join them, leaning heavily on his cane.

“Whenever you’re ready, dear boy,” he says, accompanied by a nod towards Luther. His brother composes himself, inhaling and exhaling slowly, looking at the urn in his hands. He takes the lid off and tips it out, and Five barely stops himself from cringing at the pitiful amount of ash that tumbles out into a soggy heap on the floor. He hears Klaus hiss beside him.

“Probably would have been better with some wind,” utters Luther, awkwardly.

“Does anyone wish to speak?” Asks Pogo after a beat of awkward silence, and it remains awkwardly silent. Grace stares off at the ground with a distant expression, as if she has been stuck with that expression after being confronted with the death of their father, and Diego is wearing a bitter smile.

What would Five say? He hardly ever knew Reginald, and he is sure what he did know was probably a lie.

Sighing, Pogo shuffles an inch forwards. “Very well,” he says, and he takes a moment to consider his words before continuing. “In all regards, Sir Reginald Hargreeves made me what I am today. For that alone, I shall forever be in his debt. He was my master, and my friend, and I shall miss him very much…. He leaves behind a complicated legacy-“

“He was a monster.”

Diego’s monotone cuts through Pogo’s speech like one of his knives, and Five feels the urge to roll his eyes. He wouldn’t lie and say he misses his father now, or that he feels the grief he probably ought to as he stares at the pitiful lump of his ashes, but at least he can keep himself and his emotions composed enough for the funeral. Asking that of the rest of his siblings, minus Ben, who too would be able to control himself and act responsibly, was foolish, though.

Beside him, Klaus laughs, airy and high-pitched, and smoke expels from his mouth. All eyes turn to Diego now, as he continues. “He was a bad person and a worse father. The world’s better off without him.”

“Diego,” snaps Allison, tone sharp and venomous, and Diego rises to meet it.

“My name is Number Two,” he states. “You know why? Because our father couldn’t be bothered to give us actual names. He had Mom do it.”

Called from her thoughts, Grace perks up with a smile to ask, “does anyone want something to eat?”

“No, it’s okay, Mom,” murmurs Vanya, and Grace deflates once more.

Taking a step forwards, Diego seems determined to get his hatred for their father across well. Five only feels irritation at his childishness and he cannot fathom what his goal is; what he’s trying to achieve, further than a reaction from Luther, though he supposes that is probably it in itself. And judging by the look on Luther’s face as he continues to speak, he is going to get a reaction.

“Look, you wanna pay your respects? Go ahead. But at least be honest about the kind of man he was.”

“You should stop talking now,” says Luther, predictably. Diego turns to face him, and Five can all but see him gearing up for an argument.

“You know, you of all people should be on my side here, Number One,” he declares.

“I am warning you-“

“After everything he did to you?” Diego scoffs. Five’s eyes wander over his other siblings, then goes to Klaus by his side, but his brother simply takes soft drags of his cigarette held between faintly trembling fingers and watches the argument unfold like a movie.

“He had to ship you a million miles away.”

“Diego, stop talking-“

“That’s how much he couldn’t stand the sight of you,” hisses Diego, and he jabs his finger against Luther’s chest. It isn’t a surprise to him or anyone else when Luther responds by throwing a punch, and when Diego responds just the same.

Pogo tries, and fails, to diffuse the situation, before simply shaking his head and stepping back. Klaus sticks his arm out in front of Five as they step back, as if he might try and protect him, which is laughable, really, and he can’t stop himself from reaching up to slap Klaus’ hand away from him, narrowly missing slapping his cigarette from his grip too.

Five doesn’t need anyone to protect him from anything, least of all Klaus who he has memories of pleading with Five to paint his nails with him. Pogo, disappointment etched all over his face, turns around and goes back inside. Five eyes his siblings with a similar muted sense of disappointment, and he wonders, briefly, how he is ever supposed to ask for their help when they are acting like this.

When Ben’s statue is broken, that only solidifies the doubt in his mind that asking them for help or telling them about the apocalypse might be one of his worse decisions he’s made.

Shaking his head, Five turns away from his siblings and jumps inside. He’ll spend the night here, most likely – he isn’t sure where else he could go, unless he wanted to go to one of his siblings which is beginning to look doubtful, no matter how much a part of him wants to spend time with them. He has his priorities, and there will be time to talk later, he tells himself.

It doesn’t take long after he has come in for the others to do so. Luther runs in, holding his arm as if hurt, and Vanya guides Grace inside, bypassing the kitchen. Allison comes inside, then leaves to hang likely follow Luther, and Diego treks in without saying a word to anyone. Klaus comes in last, shaking his umbrella off and muttering to himself, oblivious to Five’s presence until his muttering suddenly cuts off.

“Oh! Didn’t see you there, Five-o,” he calls, pulling off his soaked jacket. “Nice send off for dear ol’ Dad, right?”

“I’m not sure what else I should have expected,” he mutters, sparing his brother a brief glance. Klaus drags a hand through his hair, pushing it back and messing it up even more, and then he lingers, staring off into space. Distantly, Five wonders what he’s on. His face takes that distant expression like it had earlier when he had been sat upon the dining table and he blinks slowly.

His eyebrows furrow, lips part, and then his eyes bounce towards the door and he says, “oh, Diego!” Before scurrying out. Rolling his eyes, Five turns to the kitchen and begins his search for coffee. They must have at least a single tin hidden somewhere, and he wants to chase off the fatigue building up in his bones. Nonetheless, his search continues to turn nothing up but food and dishes in places he can’t remember them being – Grace must have rearranged the kitchen, he supposes.

“Hey, Five.”

He almost startles at the voice, but instead he simply sighs. Craning his head over his shoulder, he raises an eyebrow at Klaus, standing in the kitchen doorway with a guitar hanging from his hand. “What is it?” He asks. Then, narrowing his eyes, “where did you get a guitar from?”

“Oh,” he says, as if he forgot it was there. A smile graces his features and he wanders leisurely in, lifting the instrument slightly to run his hand over it. “You know, when we were fifteen, me and Diego started a band,” he states. “I put him on drums because he loves hitting things, and I played this old thing. The guitarist is always the hot one, y’know? But Diego doesn’t think today is the most appropriate time to start up a reunion.”

With a heavy sigh, Klaus collapses in Reginald’s chair at the dining table, kicks his bare feet up onto it, and cradles the guitar to him. One of his legs bounce slightly.

“Shame,” mutters Five. Klaus nods his head eagerly.

“It is! We could have been touring now if he took that stick out his ass. Say, you don’t happen to know how to play the drums, do you?”

“I’m not starting a band with you, Klaus.”

Huffing, his brother sinks into his chair and turns his gaze away from Five. As if Five isn’t allowed a break from his siblings, he hears another set of footsteps coming into the kitchen, and glances at Allison out of the corner of his eye before returning to searching another shelf for coffee.

“Where’s Vanya?” She asks.

“Oh, she’s gone,” announces Klaus.

“That’s unfortunate,” Five mutters, pausing and frowning. He had been wanting to talk to her more – was planning to after he got his coffee, in fact. He’d have to find out where she lived instead, then.

“Yeah,” sighs Allison.

Glaring, Five plucks up a coffee cafetiere from the shelf, holding it up. They have this, yet no actual coffee. Turning, he states, “forty-three bedrooms, nineteen bathrooms, but no, not a single drop of coffee.” He sets the cafetiere down on the dining table with a thud, shaking his head.

“You know Dad hated caffeine,” Allison comments.

“Well, he hated children too, and look how many of us he had,” laughs Klaus, voice airy, before his face falls into a deadpan look. Allison gives Klaus a look and Five sighs. He had all but ran on coffee in the Commission, and he has no desire to waste his time by going to sleep or dozing off.

“I’m going out,” he says, stepping away from the table. Klaus’ chair scrapes the floor as he sits up in slow motion, eyes widening a fraction.

“Where are you going?” He asks, looking ready to pounce on the chance to accompany him.

“To get a decent cup of coffee,” he replies, tone dismissive enough to shut his brother’s chance down to join him. Whether he wants to talk to his brother or wants his company, he knows he has priorities and he can’t allow himself to get distracted, can’t allow himself to waste his precious time and let things begin to slip through his fingers. With that, he turns around, and steps through space to appear in the alleyway beside the Academy.

He lingers on the spot, eyebrows furrowing as he tries to place why he specifically went here, but he finds the answer when he turns his head and spots a van – the van he had managed to fix up in the apocalypse. His shoulders slump and he heads over to it, easily jimmying the door open and sliding into the driver’s seat. It doesn’t take nearly as long as it did in the apocalypse to start the vehicle up, and then he is pulling out onto the dark road.

He doesn’t quite know where he is going, honestly, but his body seems to take him somewhere, propelled on by some deep memory within himself, and he finds himself soon enough parking outside a small café; one he recognises instantly.

Jumping out the van, Five lingers outside, staring up at the sign humming over his head. He remembers the nights he and his siblings would sneak out and come here all together, scrounging up enough money or, when they couldn’t quite cover it, Allison would use a little rumour, and they would eat as many donuts as they could stomach. Typically, it would end with Klaus throwing up on the way back home, and having a contest with Ben – or, no. Diego and Luther would have eating contests. Right?

Eyebrows furrowing, Five shakes his head softly and walks inside. They would come in and they would always sit at the long table in the middle of the room to fit them all, but that table isn’t here anymore. Had it ever been? Maybe they had been spread out over two to the left of the room, where they could look out the window and watch cars go by.

Five would always get a simple glazed donut, and Klaus and Allison would get ones with sprinkles. Or maybe just Klaus. Ben liked to get the little bite-sized ones. Vanya got ones with jam inside them – or she got ones sprinkled in sugar, maybe. Diego liked ones drizzled in chocolate. Luther liked chocolate éclairs, or he liked ones with cinnamon. Five can’t remember.

He grits his teeth against that thought, strides up to the counter and settles onto a stool. He looks around, not seeing a single employee, so he reaches a hand out to tap the bell nearby.

The door behind him opens and someone else walks in; a man comes and takes a seat beside him, offering him a nod of acknowledgement that Five doesn’t return. The place is literally empty, and the man sits right beside Five, ignoring all of the other empty chairs he could have chosen. It makes Five bristle and so he simply waits, looking forwards, until an older woman comes out.

“Sorry,” she says with a soft laugh, “the sink was clogged. So, what’ll it be?”

She bypasses Five entirely, paying her attention only to the man beside him, and once more Five is reminded of the disadvantages of having his thirteen year old body back.

The man says, “uh, give me a chocolate éclair.”

“Can I get the kid a glass of milk, or something?” She asks, briefly glancing at him, and Five forces himself to exhale slowly.

“The kid wants coffee,” he states, raising his voice. “Black.”

There is a beat of awkward silence between all three of them, before Agnes laughs a little. “Cute kid,” she comments, and when she turns back to look at Five he grins widely at her, like the kid she thinks he is. She falters once more, then turns around to get their orders. It doesn’t take her long, and she sets the éclair in front of the man and then a coffee in front of Five.

Five eagerly reaches for his coffee as soon as it touches the counter, ignoring the look the woman gives him, and the man beside him says, “here, I got his.”

Pausing, lips ghosting the rim of his coffee, Five looks at him. “Thanks.” The man only responds with a grunt and a nod, and so Five lets his eyes linger on him. There isn’t anything significant about him; he must have just come from work, by the looks of it. The label on his vest talks of a towing company, and that alone sparks an idea in Five’s mind.

He has no real idea where Meritech is. He had plans to simply go to the library and use one of the computers there to figure out where it was, but this would save him the time of doing that, and he needs every minute he can get.

“You must know your way around the city,” he states, setting down his coffee to look at the man. He has once more returned to the puzzle on his newspaper but lifts his gaze when Five speaks.

“I’d hope so,” he jokes. “Been driving it for twenty years.”

“Good,” Five says. “I need an address.”

The man eyes him with something near suspicion, so Five allows a tiny hint of a smile to grace his features, trying to look more innocent. With a sigh, the man nods. “What is it?”

“Meritech,” he says, almost eagerly, and goes to expand on the place but the man nods.

“You can’t miss it,” he says, and he gives him the specific address of the street before giving further directions, “it’s only a few streets down from the main library. Big place, can’t miss it.”

Five, feeling nearly giddy with this information, nods his head and pulls his journal out from the inside pocket on his blazer. Hurriedly, he flips to the last used page, then pauses. “Can I use that pen?” He asks, nodding to the one in the man’s hand. With a small sigh, the man hands it over, finishes his éclair, and then stands up as Five writes the address and directions in his journal.

The man leaves, offering a goodbye that Five returns. He stares down at the address in front of him, then underlines it, just because he can’t help the rush of excitement he feels at the idea of being one step closer to figuring this thing out within only hours of his return. He sets his journal back into his pocket and reaches for his coffee.

Once more, the door opens, and several pairs of footsteps filter in. Five drops his gaze to the bell in front of him, using it to watch whoever is entering. He stifles a sigh at the sight of several gunmen. One of them comes right up to him, gun pointed to his head. Five vaguely recognises him from his time in the Commission.

“I thought I’d have more time before you found me,” he comments. His fingers run over the rim of his coffee. He has hardly had more than a single sip of it. What a waste.

“So, let’s all be professional about this yeah? On your feet and come with us. They want to talk,” says the little leader of this group, his gun not wavering where it is trained between Five’s eyes.

“I’ve got nothing to say,” he responds, tone dismissive and casual.

“It doesn’t have to go this way,” the man insists. “You think I want to shoot a kid? Go home with that on my conscience?”

“Well,” says Five, and his eyes trail down to his hands, and then to the cutlery laid out nearby. His eyes settle on the knife. “I wouldn’t worry about that. You won’t be going home.”

The man’s grip on his gun tightens, and Five’s fingers reach out to take the knife from the table. With it in his grasp, Five turns, and as he moves space gives way to his demands and spits him out onto the man’s back; without hesitation, he drives the knife onto his neck and jumps away as the gun sprays bullets everywhere.

The lights begin to flicker, shards of glass sprinkling down onto the floor, and the other three men startle and immediately begin trying to scope him out.

Five sprawls himself out on one of the tables, watching for a brief moment as the men look around the now-dark room, heads whipping side to side. The Commission could send anyone after him; Five is better than them all. So, he speaks tauntingly, raising his voice to call; “hey, assholes!”

He already has a lead for the apocalypse, and now knows where to follow it. By this time tomorrow the apocalypse will have been averted, and they can throw all of their soldiers at him and it won’t change a thing.

When the guns point at him again, he disappears just before he can be shot. Cool air hits his skin as he appears outside, round the side of the building, and he listens absently to the sound of gunshots echoing rapidly inside until, finally, falling silent as the gunmen realise he is gone again.

Wandering up to one of the glass side entrances, Five takes pleasure in seeing them look anxiously around them, tense and awaiting his next appearance. One person takes slow steps backwards right towards him, oblivious, and Five raises his hand to knock the glass. The man startles slightly, whipping around, and upon seeing Five he raises his gun. As he pulls the trigger, Five steps backwards and melts into space.

When he appears this time, his hands tug his tie off and hook it around one man’s neck. Yanking as hard as he can, the man falls back against a table, head hanging over the edge, and Five all but hangs off his neck to choke him. The man falls still, unconscious, and Five teleports away just as the remaining two men realise where he is now.

He watches their carful movements from just out of their sight, eying them as they subconsciously line up with one another. He waits a moment longer, waiting until they are perfectly side by side, and then he blinks and appears between the two of them.

“Over here,” he taunts, tone cold and bitter, and the two men whip around to point their guns at him. He steps backwards, falling through space, and watches from the opposite end of the room as they shoot each other.

The broken lights buzz deafeningly now that the gunshots have stopped and Five takes a moment to pause, looking around at the utter disarray the room is in. Bodies lay around the room, windows are shattered and chairs have fallen over. He turns his attention to the man with his tie around his neck, dissatisfied to still see a rise and fall to his chest, and so he wanders over, places his hands expertly on his neck like Reginald taught him, and twists. He slips his tie off the man’s neck, fixing it back onto himself, and allows his gaze to wander over the Commission members.

He knew they would come after him as swiftly as they could, but he had expected himself to have a little more time. They must have jumped to follow him, he thinks. It is almost impressive how they managed to find him so quickly. He’ll have to be more careful.

With one last check that everyone inside is dead, Five turns and heads out the door.

He could go back to the Academy, and really it is the only place he has to go to. He ought to get some rest, but a part of himself vehemently rejects that idea and he suddenly mourns the loss of his coffee with a fierce bitterness. The academy will still be void of coffee and going back would defeat the purpose of leaving in the first place.

Wandering down empty streets, Five passes by a board and pauses, something catching his eye.

A picture of Vanya holding a violin, her telephone number on it, offering violin lessons.

He stares at the photo of her, solemn-faced with a violin in one hand.

It takes him all of eight minutes to find her apartment, and she isn’t even home when he arrives. He lets himself in easily, turning on a lap to illuminate the dark room, and then he allows himself to look around. He would have hoped his sister would end up living in perhaps a better part of the city, and the apartment itself looks old and unwelcoming and not at all like a home. Not that he believes it is in his right to judge the house; a home, as well as money, is all but a foreign concept to Five, and it would be a lie if he said he was familiar with it.

It unsettles him to think that it will take him a while yet to integrate into normal life once more. He had hoped, foolishly, that he would be able to slip back into the flow of things, but he knows that even once this apocalypse has been averted. But he will face those problems when they arrive; for now, nothing matters but averting the apocalypse.

With the chaos his family had been in at Reginald’s funeral, he isn’t sure that telling them about the apocalypse would be the best thing to do. A part of him hopes that he can sort this out entirely by himself and not need to tell them and they can be oblivious to the threat hanging over their heads; he knows that if they were to find out what Five is doing, at least a few of them would try to force their way in and help, and they would just get in his way and put themselves closer to the danger. At least without knowing – or, at least Five assumes they didn’t know until closer to the time or until it was too late – they have seven days. Five would rather not risk shortening that already short time they have.

But Vanya – she had always been there to listen to him, and she should understand his concerns for their safety and being ordinary, she wouldn’t be able to help him even if she wanted to. He could at least confide in her and perhaps take some of the weight off his shoulders without having to worry that she is going to go off on her own to try and save the world and get herself hurt or killed.

He perks up when he hears footsteps coming up the stairs and closer to the door, and sits further upright when he hears a key slide into the lock. The door slides open and sure enough, Vanya steps in, reaching for her light switch only to stop and startle upon seeing someone in her home.

“You should have locks on your window,” Five comments after a moment. Vanya gives him an odd look, closing the door behind her and sliding her violin case off her shoulder.

“I live on the second floor,” she states, sounding confused, and Five shrugs.

“Rapists can climb,” he states, and receives yet another look. Five is sure he remembers reading statistics about locked windows and break-ins somewhere, sometime.

“You are so weird,” Vanya utters, shaking her head slightly fondly. She shucks off her coat and hangs it up, then comes and sits down on the couch beside him. “What are you doing here?” She asks, curious, and Five shifts slightly on the spot, but he’s already made his decision.

“I’ve decided you’re the only one I can trust,” he says.

“Why me?”

“Because you’re ordinary.” Something flickers in her expression there, brief and gone quickly, and Five’s thoughts bounce to the bitterness interwoven with each word in her book. To soften things a bit, he adds, “because you’ll listen.”

It works; Vanya’s shoulders slump and she sighs softly, nodding. “Alright. Do you – do you want a drink, or anything?”

Pressing his lips together, Five glances to the small kitchen over her shoulder. “Do you have any coffee?”

Vanya nods and she seems eager to stand up, wandering to the kitchen and brewing some coffee. Five’s eyes track her as she works, pouring one cup and getting water for herself, and he receives it gratefully; hands hugging the cup and leeching its heat. Vanya sits down, silent, and Five takes it as an invitation to begin to speak.

“You know what I saw when I jumped forward and got stuck in the future?” He asks, purely rhetorical, and Vanya shakes her head nonetheless. He blinks and imagines of ash and flames appear on the backs of his eyelids, and his voice drops as he says, “nothing. Absolutely nothing. As far as I could tell, I was the last person left alive. I never figured out what killed the human race, but… I did find out something else; the date it happens.”

His eyes don’t leave Vanya’s, watching for her reaction to each word and she clings onto what he says, not interrupting him or outwardly giving much away as to her thoughts. “The world ends in eight days,” he states. “And I have no idea how to stop it.”

The admission is hard to get out of his throat; the words heavy and thick and tasting of shame and failure. He has had decades to try and figure it out and the closest he ever got was a prosthetic eye. But he tells himself that he knows where said eye comes from; he knows where to go, now. There is no use being mad at himself for the past, but he can’t help himself nonetheless. He should have been able to find some clue; should have been able to figure anything else out, but he never did. Not even when he was with the Commission.

“When I got there, the world was in ruins. Everything had been destroyed and been burnt to ash, and places were still on fire when I arrived. I must have gotten there only hours after whatever happened had taken place. I tried to get back home, of course, but Dad was right; I wasn’t ready for time travel. I couldn’t control it, and I couldn’t get back. When I realised I was stuck there, I had to learn how to live in that place. I survived on scraps; canned food, cockroaches; anything I could find.” He shakes his head, and he can almost taste it all in the back of his throat once more. He can remember the crippling hunger that haunted him from day to day and how he had been desperate to get his hands on anything. At least with time travel reverting him to his thirteen year-old body, he might be able to avoid the future complications of decades of malnutrition his body had suffered with.

“I can’t imagine,” utters Vanya, shaking her head. Five sighs, staring at the remnants of his coffee.

“You do whatever it takes to survive,” he simply says, offering a slight shrug of his shoulders. “Or you die. So, we adapted.” The word choice is a subconscious slip up, but it allows his mind to slip back to Delores, who had already slipped his mind prior, and he feels a sliver of guilt at that. He had left her all alone in that wasteland to follow The Handler out of it. “Whatever the world threw at us, we found a way to overcome it.”

Vanya raises an eyebrow at him. “We?” She echoes, and Five sighs. He runs his thumb over the rip of the cup, pursing his lips, then lifts the cup up.

“Have you got anything stronger than this?”

Vanya eyes him, curious, and then rises to her feet. Five follows her into the kitchen, accepting the small glass of whiskey she pours him, and all but throws it back. The burn in his throat is familiar and relaxes his tense body, even though he knows he isn’t going to be drinking much or getting drunk on it. He does wonder, briefly, that since he is back in his younger body that his tolerance must be lower, and at least that is a good thing to come from this. At least his liver has been restored to its proper health, too. He’ll have time to confront the effects of drinking with a young body later; but for now, it isn’t important to him.

He holds the glass and turns his attention back to Vanya, who has been quiet since they spoke. She is staring at him oddly again, eyebrows slightly furrowed and a dubious look on her face, and the realisation hits him.

“You think I’m crazy,” he says, eyebrows raising in a challenge.

“No,” Vanya hurries to say, looking away and shaking her head. “It’s just – it’s a lot to take in.”

“Exactly what don’t you understand?” He asks her, tone raising defensively.

“Why didn’t you time travel back?” She asks, and Five’s jaw tics. He scoffs, shaking his head and looking away.

“Gee, wish I would have thought of that,” he snaps sarcastically. As if his first reaction wasn’t to try and go back; as if he didn’t try to do that every single day for decades. “I already told you; time travel is a crapshoot. Don’t you think I tried everything I could to get back to my family?”

He would be lying if he said the accusation didn’t hurt. He had expected Vanya to listen to him, and perhaps not really understand, but at least sympathise with him and try to understand, if nothing else. She had always been there to listen to him, had expressed her faith in him in learning his powers when Reginald wouldn’t let him. Without Ben here to talk to, and likely have more understanding of the difficulties in controlling powers, he had banked on Vanya being there for him instead.

It is disappointing to realise that perhaps this was a mistake, and that he doesn’t have the support of any family member, but he swallows that down. He has been alone for decades; he doesn’t need support from anyone. He was likely being childish thinking he should confide such a thing in anyone.

“If you grew old in the apocalypse,” Vanya continues. “Then how come you still look like a kid?”

Again, Five grits his teeth and shakes his head. “I’ve already told you this,” he states, irritation flooding through him, and he bypasses her to go for the bottle of alcohol sitting on the counter behind her. He twists the cap off and fills his glass. “I must have gotten the equations wrong somewhere,” he adds over his shoulder, and hears Vanya sigh.

“It’s just that – Dad always used to say that, you know… time travel could mess up your mind? Maybe that’s what’s happening.”

He can’t help but laugh at that. Reginald had been right, of course. It had messed with his head, but simply not in the way that Vanya is thinking. Sipping his drink, he eyes the cupboard in front of him, exhaling slowly. Vanya thinks he has made this all up. Not only does she not believe him, she thinks he has gone and broke his mind. He is glad now he hesitated confiding further in her about the issues with his memory – he had wanted to. It would perhaps be good to do so, in case he takes longer than he expects to find and eliminate who has to and his mind slips up; it would be nice to have someone to rely on. But he knows, now, that telling Vanya this would be the worst decision he could make.

He should have known better, in hindsight. He should have known better than to tell anyone this. No one will or even can understand what the apocalypse truly is like, what it means; they can’t wrap their simple little minds around it without witnessing it. Of course Vanya, too, wouldn’t be able to understand the struggles with exploring new powers. He had acted impulsively, on some childish desire to talk to his family in some poor disguise for comfort, perhaps, rather than acting rationally. He has never needed support or, god forbid, comfort before now, and he doesn’t need it now. His emotions don’t matter to the apocalypse, and if he keeps acting out on them then he will doom everyone.

“This was a mistake,” Five mutters, and he sits his glass down on the counter and turns around, speaking more to himself now out of a long-ingrained habit. “You’re too young – too naïve to understand.”

He sighs, more so disappointed in himself than Vanya, and he heads to the door. He’ll simply return to the academy, he plans, but Vanya’s voice stops him.

“Hey, Five, no – wait, wait, please.”

Begrudgingly, Five pauses in his steps, and after a moment he turns around to face her. “I haven’t seen you in a long time,” she says, and a hint of emotion slips into her voice. “And I don’t want to lose you again. That’s all. And – you know what, it’s getting late, and I have lessons early, and I need to sleep, and I’m sure you do, too.”

Spurred on by Five not moving any closer to the door, Vanya returns to the couch, taking the blanket off the back of it and spreading it out, and then retrieving a cushion from her armchair and setting it up at one end of the couch in a quick makeshift bed.

“Here,” she says, smoothing out the blanket. “We’ll talk in the morning again, okay? I promise.”

She stands up, quiet for a moment again, but she seems satisfied to see that Five hasn’t either walked out or disappeared elsewhere, and Five isn’t entirely sure he is going to.

“Night,” she offers, and takes slow steps towards her bedroom.

With a sigh, Five returns, “night.”

He watches her disappear into her bedroom, closing the door behind her, and then he turns his gaze to the makeshift bed she prepared for him. Sighing, Five eyes the couch for several long moments, torn between what to do, and then he dips his hand into his pocket. His fingers close around the wad of cloth in there and he tugs it out, unfolding it to stare at the prosthetic eye hidden inside, and he rolls it around to look at the lab name printed on the back. He knows where Meritech is now, thanks to that guy at Griddy’s. He ought not to waste any time. He knows that whatever conversation Vanya thinks they’ll have in the morning will not go in the direction he wants it to, and he shouldn’t have expected any better.

It’s best if he doesn’t drag his siblings into his mess, and he has never needed help before. He can find a single person and kill them on his own, like he has done a hundred times before.

Five puts the eye in his pocket and, with one final glance in the direction of Vanya’s bedroom, he watches the light beneath the door turn off. Then he steps outside and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give Five some trust 2K20, anyone?  
> As always, I'd love to hear any thoughts you have! Any kudos or comments are greatly appreciated <3


	3. Collect Your Scars and Wear Them Well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for; canon-typical violence, drinking/underage drinking (it's Five)

He does consider, briefly, just heading back to the academy to rest in his old bedroom, but between the attack from the Commission and Vanya’s disbelief, he doesn’t feel comfortable resting there. He knows, too, that he is scrabbling to delay the inevitable decline of his mind, as if going to sleep will loosen his grip on himself and allow the fragments of his mind to slip further away. At least now he can keep somewhat of a grasp on it, forcing the pieces to stay together. It works about as well as trying to piece together a shattered mirror.

Not that it matters. He has his priority to avert this apocalypse, and that is all that matters until it has been successfully completed. Afterwards he can worry about trying to fix himself.

As he wanders the nearly empty streets of the city, he can’t help but let his mind wander to his family. He is still thoroughly wound up after the conversation with Vanya and realising she thinks he is mad. He should have expected it, though. He and Vanya aren’t close little children any longer and she has grown up, as has he. They are both different people; they don’t confide in people and it has been too long now to try and rekindle that trust that had once been between them. Vanya cannot understand things beyond ordinary, and she is probably content with her life now; free of the Academy and the constant reminders of her ordinary state, she has probably settled down and enjoys living a normal life that her siblings would kill for.

Then again, Five can’t see the thirteen year-old Vanya he remembers being so willing to do that. Nonetheless, Five overstepped when he decided to confide in her, and he feels so foolish for doing that now. Not only did he overestimate his family and how their lives have changed and how they have grown, as if he should have expected to come back to his thirteen year-old siblings, but Five doesn’t _need_ the help, either.

Five has survived decades in an apocalyptic wasteland all by himself, and he has survived the Temps Commission and single-handedly outsmarted everyone there. Five does not need to talk about the problems of his past, or the problems of his present. It is too close to the childish idea of venting, which implies that Five is worried or afraid, which he most certainly is not. Five doesn’t need support, nor does he need help. Nor _should_ he. He never has before, and he doesn’t need it now.

He chides himself on being so childish and impulsive. He is supposed to be level-headed and rational, but hardly a few hours have passed and he had already sought out some kind of support. He will have plenty of time to talk with his siblings after the apocalypse passes, but if he doesn’t manage to avert it then he will only get to see his siblings alive for another seven days. Five has always been good at following a plan under any circumstances, and this ought to be no different.

His first priority is finding Meritech and finding the owner of the eye he has. If he can do that, then it will hardly take him longer than an hour after retrieving his information to eliminate the person and successfully avert the apocalypse, or so he hopes. He will remain alert for the rest of the week, of course, in case there are multiple variables he hasn’t been able to find yet, but it is indisputable that the person owning this eye is the main factor attributing to the apocalypse.

So, with the knowledge of Meritech’s address thanks to the man he met in Griddy’s, he begins to walk down the dim streets towards it. As he does so, he begins to think. It feels odd, almost surreal, to be back in this city, to be surrounded by intact buildings. Even with his time in the Commission, surrounded by people and life once more, he had never gotten used to it and he wonders if he ever will. He doubts it. He has never been able to shake the effects of the apocalypse off and he resigns himself to having it follow him wherever he goes now. He can only hold onto foolish hope that once this week passes and he can afford to relax that he might be able to move; let go of the breath he has been holding for four decades and be able to live a proper life. He has never considered what he might do once the apocalypse passes and he can return home. He has accepted that life will never be the perfect dream he had wanted; he cannot go back in time and stop himself from leaving, stop his siblings from the abuse Reginald dealt them, stop Ben from dying and instead let them grow into good people. He can’t grow into a good person himself, either. It is disheartening to think that in a year, he will likely be living in the Academy, perhaps only with Luther, and Allison’s career will be in shambles and she might fail at getting her daughter back; Vanya will talk to no one and will live in that same old apartment, failing to progress in her musical career; Diego will get himself hurt one day in his vigilante-shtick, and Klaus will run out of luck on the streets, and Ben will stay dead.

He tries not to think about that, though. He came back to save his siblings, and he will try to save them properly, even further than the apocalypse, and maybe they can be nearly-normal. Five has never really been that optimistic, though he has been stubborn and head-strong, and he can drive this idea through to a semi-successful end, hopefully.

He has gone down two streets when he realises a van is following him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots the vehicle making odd movements in its attempt to always keep him in its sight; either slowing down obnoxiously when the road is clear of other cars, or ducking into a driveway or parking spot for a while either behind or ahead of him, only to catch up or follow him as he passes. Part of him entertains the idea that this is due to the fact that he looks like a thirteen year-old boy wandering the depths of a city past midnight, and that someone is really about to try and kidnap him, and the thought is met with little more than irritation, honestly. He fiercely misses his real body, then, and resigns himself to gritting his teeth and bearing the downsides that he is inevitably due to face looking as he does, and to be side-tracked by some random normal person will be dreadful. He truly can’t be bothered with the distraction, and he would rather not have to leave such a big trail of bodies behind him, especially one that doesn’t belong to the Commision, though at least he surely can’t be sentenced to jail for murder for an obvious kidnapping of a child (though Five, of course, would never let himself get near a jail even if such a thing happened.)

Just to be certain that the van truly is following him, Five makes multiples odd turns. He cuts through alleyways and reappears on another street, and the van follows after him. He makes multiple turns onto the same street and the van follows. The windows are heavily tinted and he can’t make out who is inside or how many people might be inside, and he suspects the only reason they aren’t making a move to him is because, though the streets are bare, they aren’t empty.

Eventually, he has to entertain the idea of the Commission. He didn’t leave a trace after the attack at Griddy’s and it is slightly unnerving to think they are so quick and intent on tracking him. Curious, Five ducks down another alleyway, and then looks to the building on his left. As natural to him as breathing, he steps forwards, this time stepping through space that opens up for him and crushes a distance into a single step for him, and he is on the top of the building he had been beside within the blink of an eye. He crouches by the edge, peering over and, sure enough, the van that has been following him this whole time stops across the street.

The doors open and two people get out, and though it is hard to see with the distance and the darkness, Five can just make out the glint of weapons in their hands. In their other, they both hold what looks like a child’s mask, and then they slip them over their heads and they expand. Five presses his lips together, trying to chase the feeling of familiarity in his guts. They are definitely Commission members, then, and likely from the same branch he worked in, which must be why he thinks they are familiar. The masks are unique, and he knows the duo is special, but he can’t place them.

The two people wander across the street and to the building Five is situated on. They peer into the windows, walk the perimeter and into the alleyway he had gone in. He hears a distant crack as the larger one kicks a door down and the two enter, guns raising, and Five ponders his choices. He doesn’t want to deal with them so quickly and he has learned to follow his gut, and his gut tells him that he needs to be more careful with these people. He knows they could never kill him – Five was better than any Commission member – but it would not do to be injured.

So Five jumps.

He reappears at the other end of the street and he begins to run through the alleyways to try and put some space between them. If he can shake them off his trail, then he ought to have some time to at least pass Meritech and scope the place out like he originally had planned to do upon leaving Vanya’s apartment.

He manages to put a few streets between himself and the building he had seen them enter, and he begins to slow his pace a little, but is utterly dismayed to turn and look over his shoulder at the sound of a speeding car and see the van turning onto his corner. Eyebrows furrowing, Five crosses space to reach the other side of the street, this time behind the van, and begins to once more weave his way through dark alleyways.

Every time he peers out, though, that van is right there.

“Fucksake,” he mutters to himself, shaking his head minutely. They are seeking out a fight and he knows he won’t be able to hold his own if he continues to spatial jump around the place in an apparently futile attempt to shake them; not as he is, sleep-deprived and still worn out from the stress time travel put on his body and mind. He has to do this fight somewhere soon, and ideally without being in the middle of a street where innocent civilians might get hurt, or where he can cause slightly less of a scene.

He scouts out an ideal place around him and his eyes eventually come to rest on a nearby shop. It has a large car park out front of it and has evidently been closed for the night. It looks large, big enough for him to fight in and have places for cover, and it is far enough out that should police be called because of any commotion then it will take them some time.

And plus, the sign name looks familiar to him. He can’t place it, but with a final glance to the van turning the corner onto this street again, he turns and runs to it.

As expected, the van follows behind him, and he only has a few minutes to put some space between he and the front doors they should come through, as well as finding a weapon; of which ends up being a gardening shovel with sharp edges. He weighs it in the hand, tests it with a strike through the air, and though it is no rifle it will have to do. And then the doors smash in.

The two people don’t even try to be subtle with their entrance. They come with their guns raised, and despite not being in their sight, he hears one of them call; “he’s over there!”

Gunshots begins to rain down on him and Five curses, pressing himself back against a rack to use it as cover. Gripping his weapon tightly, he throws a quick glance around and jumps to a new place. It only takes a moment for the bullets to follow him, and he has to run with his head ducked low between the racks of clothes either side of him to avoid getting shot.

As he runs a corner, he gets a very brief look at his two attackers, and he uses that split second to mentally size them up and judge them. He puts his first target on the smaller of the two of them, liking his chances with her better and knowing that it will be easier to deal with the larger one without having her attacking him at the same time. When he lunges forwards this time, he plunges through nothingness, throws his arms out, and slams into the woman’s side. Hurriedly, he slashes at her neck with his weapon, aiming for her veins, and hisses when he hears the clang of metal on metal – the mask prevents him from hitting anything major. As he falls off of her side, he falls through space and reappears elsewhere, scrambling back onto his feet.

He continues to run, dodging bullets, and as he runs down a new aisle his eyes catch sight of something familiar, and then his gut drops. “Delores!” He hisses beneath his breath, and the pause causes a bullet to skim his arm. Cursing, he continues on running.

He can’t leave her here; that much is obvious. Nor can he continue to run around her and stupidly put her in harm’s way as he has been. He needs to get Delores, and he needs to either take care of these attackers or he needs to get out of there.

Although his knees are beginning to feel a little weak, he once more throws himself forwards and this time towards Delores; his arms wrap around her and they crash to the ground. He twists, taking the brunt of the fall so she doesn’t have to, and feels guilty when he hears the crash that follows him. Instead of hitting the floor, they fall through space first, and reappear elsewhere. He inhales sharply, steadying himself, tears a bag off rack and hastily shoves Delores inside it with a muttered apology, guilt making him feel more nauseous than the constant spatial jumps. He can apologies properly later; for now it is necessary. He zips the bag up; ducks a bullet; and throws the bag over his shoulder, and begins to run.

He knows he can’t keep this up. They are a better shot than he expected, somehow managing to know exactly where he is even if he spatial jumps to the opposite side of the room, and are too hot on his trail to give him a long pause or to act with the element of surprise to attack them. He hardly has a moment to try and conjure up a precious plan, too, and if he doesn’t get the upper hand soon or the police don’t arrive and scare them off soon – he knows how the Commission works, and getting distracted with law enforcement is something they try to avoid because of the hassle and the paperwork – then he isn’t sure how much longer he can keep this up. Not that he won’t try.

He ducks, warps through space, and slashes at the back of the man’s knees. He jumps as soon as his attack is gone, narrowly dodging a bullet, and he has a moment in which he is able to exhale before the bullets begin again.

And then, in the distant; blessed sirens. The police are coming, and it makes the two attackers pause to look at one another, silently talking. He ought to take this moment of distraction to stretch himself just a little further and jump outside, giving himself a head start, but he sways on his feet and breathes harshly and knows that he needs at least a moment’s break before being able to do that again. Instead, he turns his head, sees the cashier’s counter, and jumps over it. He presses himself down to the ground, the bag with Delores in it by his feet, and tries to silence his breathing. Maybe he can convince them that he has indeed jumped outside, and he knows that they will be pressed with time as flashing lights begin to bathe the shop as the police approach.

He hears a heavy sigh. “We’ll come back later, come on,” says the woman, and he tips his head back to rest against the counter behind him, exhaling shakily. He listens to their footsteps retreat to the backdoor and-

Gunshots-

They tear through the counter, right where he is, and he hardly manages to muffle a sharp gasp as a bullet tears through him once, followed immediately by another one; one in his abdomen, one low on his left arm. The other bullets rain around him, luckily just missing him, and then they finally, finally stop and he hears a door slide open and he is alone.

He lets himself be louder, then; lets himself gasp as he fights himself to control the pain he feels, trying to wrangle it under his hands and push it down until he can see again. He places one hand on his abdomen, the one that feels like a bonfire in his guts, and feels blood slip between his fingers; the bullet went straight through.

Police cars slide to a halt outside. He needs to move.

He has had worse, he tells himself, gritting his teeth together and trying to stop the pathetic wheeze to his breaths, but it doesn’t lessen the pain at all. When he reaches forwards it only causes the pain to spike, and he squeezes his eyes shut against stars. His hand curls around the strap of his bag, tugging it over his neck, and then the non-bloody hand splays out on the counter beside him and he uses it to heave himself onto his feet. He needs to get outside – needs to get back to the Academy, or Vanya’s – whatever is closer.

He jumps again, and he collapses just nearby the back door the attackers escaped from a minute ago. Groaning, Five turns to watch with bleary eyes as officers get out of their cars and begin to step hesitantly in, calling out a warning, wielding guns and flashlights. He tugs himself backwards, trying to hide himself amongst the clothing nearby him, and hopes they don’t come search near him. Maybe he can wait them out.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, clutching Delores’ bag to his lap, clammy and trembling as he bottles up his pain and manages to muffle the sound of his heavy breathing through sheer determination alone. He has had worse, he tells himself. He just needs a moment to compose himself as his adrenaline rapidly crashes and then he will be gone and he can get someone to help him with his wounds, or he will do it himself. He just needs to wait until he can.

And then the back door opens. It hits his foot and he struggles to pull it into himself quickly, grimacing as he does so, and he tenses, readies himself to tear bluntly through space should his attackers decide to make a sudden return, but then he is staring up at the face of his brother.

Diego looks down at him, casual, looks away as he steps inside, then does a double-take and looks back at Five with more shock to his expression. His eyebrows furrow and he looks between the incompetent police at the front of the store, somehow oblivious to his entrance, and Five sitting by his feet, and then he crouches down.

“Five? What are you doing here?” He asks, and Five huffs out an unamused, pained laugh. Diego opens his mouth to say something else, undoubtedly something stupid, and then changes his words when he really takes Five in. He looks him up and down, leans close and Five resists the urge to shove him away.

“What are you doing?” He grits out, curling his hands tighter on Delores’ bag, and he forces his body to relax ever so slightly; tries to look more composed and less hurt. It almost works, too, he thinks, but then his brother goes and asks; “is that blood? Five, there was shots fired here – did you-“

“Fuck off,” he growls, voice low in his throat mainly because it catches on the nauseous lump there. He places his hand on the floor and slowly, so agonisingly slowly, tries to force himself onto his feet, but the moment he moves from his knees upright he begins to fall; Diego catches him.

“Five, seriously – what the hell? Shit, okay, we’re going-“ As if Five is a child, Diego lifts him right up into his arms. Five hisses like a feral cat, convincing himself it is less out of pain and more out of venom to being held in such a humiliating and infantilising way, but he doesn’t move; he tells himself it is because the bag with Delores would fall if he did, and Diego wouldn’t stop to get her.

As sneakily as he entered, Diego exits out the backdoor with Five in his arms, and carries him out to his car parked at the mouth of the alleyway. He sets him in the passenger’s seat of it and Five melts back into the leather of it, sighing. As Diego begins to drive the car away, he struggles to sit more upright, and he ignores his brother as he begins to ask questions. He turns to look at the shop and thinks back to the utter mess that had just happened.

Five is better than that. How he got so utterly overpowered is humiliating and nearly distressing. How they managed to so quickly and efficiently track him down is worrying. They must be the best the Commision has to offer, but even then Five is supposed to be better than them. It infuriates him that he can’t even place who they are, either; he must know who they are, or at least have heard of them in his time at the Commission. With a hasty glance at Diego, whose gaze continues to bounce rapidly between the road and him, Five reaches into his blazer and tugs out his journal. He would much rather no one know about its existence, a sliver of paranoia seeping into him. The journal is like his own mind, and without it he has nothing, and though Diego is unlikely to exploit it he still doesn’t want to risk it. If no one else knows about it, then nothing bad can happen to it.

“Five, seriously, what happened?” Diego asks. Five flips through pages towards the end of his entries, during his time in the Commission, smearing blood along the edge of the paper with his thumb, until one catches his eyes. He opens it, smooths it out, and comes face to face with a poor drawing of a chip. A tracker.

His gut sinks and he closes his eyes, gritting his teeth together.

“Five-“

“I need one of your knives,” he says, holding out a bloody hand that, to his credit, does not shake.

“What?” Diego asks, eyebrows furrowing. “Five, seriously-“

“A knife, Diego,” he repeats, voice cold, and reluctantly, Diego tugs one out of the harness he is wearing and places it in Five’s waiting hand. Five weighs it, testing its grip, mildly pleased with the feel of it – it is a good knife, certainly – and then he turns to look back down at his journal. He may not be an artist, but he has sketched out a vague diagram of the tracker and where it rests inside his arm.

How stupid could he be to have forgotten that? He feels embarrassment curl up in his guts at such a foolish mistake. Of course the Commission was able to track him so quickly; of course the two attackers were able to figure out exactly where he was in that shop; they could see it. For all he knows, they are following him once again now that he is once more on the move, and this time Diego is with him and in harm’s way. Five needs to get the tracker out immediately.

He feels along his arm until he presses down over a slight bump beneath his skin, and then he places the tip of the knife over it.

“What the hell are you doing?” Diego splutters, and Five, once more, simply ignores him. He concentrates on digging the knife into his skin, as deep as he has recorded it being in his journal, and then he widens the cut slightly. He sets the knife aside and digs already-bloody fingers into the wound, gritting his teeth slightly, and his fingers close around the damn tracker, tugging it out.

It blinks in his grasp, taunting him and mocking him, and he glares at it for a moment longer before his other hand opens the car window, and he chucks it out. He hopes it gets run over.

A foolish mistake almost cost him everything. He is supposed to be better than that, and yet he let arguably one of the most important factors he would have to deal with upon his return home slip his mind so easily. He is irresponsible and stupid, acting as if he wants the apocalypse to happen. Any ideas of being able to take this week easily hurry to flee his mind; he’ll have time to relax later, but evidently now he can’t risk to take things easy. He will have to try better.

“Are you going to talk to me?” Diego asks.

“Where are we going?” Five asks in return, peering out over the dashboard of the car.

“Back to the Academy,” says Diego, looking him up and down. “You’re hurt, and Mom can help.”

Pursing his lips, Five nods once and then sinks back against the seat. With adrenaline and urgency finally washing away, Five feels utterly exhausted, his head swimming and body feeling shaky and weak. He is, admittedly, grateful that Diego came to the crime scene and is taking him back to the Academy where Grace can help – although he knows he can do it himself, it will be easier and quicker this way.

“What was that shooting about, Five?” Diego asks, voice low.

“I don’t see why you should care,” Five retorts, looking out the window.

“Because you’re bleeding all over my upholstery,” Diego snaps back, curling his fingers around the driving wheel.

“Hardly.”

“Have you looked at yourself?” Diego scoffs, raising an eyebrow incredulously. Five shoots him a glare, shifting slightly to try and sit up.

“I’m _fine_.”

“So I can let you out and let you walk home, then?” Diego responds, and Five hardens his glare.

“Yes,” he says. “You could. Let me out.”

If Delores wasn’t still in that bag (which he still feels guilty for, and knows he will receive an earful about that later) he knows she would have some choice words for him right now.

Diego rolls his eyes but doesn’t stop the car, so Five counts it a victory on his own part that he got the last word in. He wouldn’t enjoy walking home, but he could if he had to. He doesn’t need Diego to drive him around like he is some incapable child.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” He asks, again, as if Five did not hear him the thirst hundred times he asked. When Five opens his mouth to tell him to, essentially, fuck off once more, Diego interrupts him. “Don’t tell me it’s none of my business, Five. What the fuck happened? I heard a call about shots fired and I go and find you bleeding out all over the place and the place itself trashed.”

“Slight exaggeration,” mutters Five, rolling his eyes. “I thought Mom didn’t let you curse.”

“ _Five_ ,” Diego growls, glaring at him, and Five can’t help the small smirk that tugs his lips up at Diego’s short temper.

“Well, what do you think happened?” He snorts. “Shots fired. I happened to not dodge all of the shots. Here I am.”

Diego exhales a heavy sigh, eyes cold on the road, and Five turns his gaze to the bag with Delores by his feet.

“How bad are they?” He asks, looking at Five.

“How bad are what?”

“The shots,” he clarifies. “Where’d you get hit?”

Sighing, Five shifts slightly and looks down at the blood seeping through his pale fingers. The sight distracts him as if it is hypnotising and he is fixated on it for a moment. It drips from his fingers and slides down the leather of the seat he’s on, likely staining the bottom of Diego’s car. Something tells him that Diego is a car guy and that he won’t be happy with the mess he’s making. Another part of him tells him Diego is too worried to care. Not that Five needs his concern.

A hand settles on his shoulder and he nearly startles. Instead he blinks, looking up at Diego’s worried eyes. He swallows and asks, “what?”

Frowning, Diego repeats, “I asked where you got hit.” Then his eyes drop to the obvious bloodstain over his abdomen. “Anywhere else?”

Stifling a groan, Five tips his head to the side and looks down to his arm. He holds it up slightly. “’s not that bad,” he mutters, dropping his hand back to his lap. He blinks against the heavy exhaustion melting deep into his bones, knows that he can’t afford to give into it, and he reminds himself of the time he broke his leg in the apocalypse. At least, with his thirteen year-old body again, he doesn’t have to worry about the odd pain that rekindles in old, unhealed wounds from the apocalypse.

“Yeah, you look just peachy, huh,” snorts Diego, but it doesn’t hold any kind of sarcasm to it when he looks at Five, pale and clammy and bleeding in his passenger’s seat.

Five will simply have to threaten him about keeping this utterly humiliating situation to himself later.

Obviously, Diego sits with a hundred questions on the tip of his tongue, but they arrive finally to the Academy and he saves them for later. He comes around to open Five’s door, offering out a hand. Five swats it away, grabs his bag in one hand and uses the other to slowly leverage himself out of the car. The moment he unfolds onto his legs, however, the pain in his abdomen spikes and his knees buckle. As if truly just wanting to humiliate Five to ashes, Diego wraps his arm around his waist, and then decides the height difference between the two of them is too awkward to walk them inside, so he just lifts Five up into his arms again.

“I hate you,” Five says.

“You can hate me later.”

“I’m not a fucking child,” he drawls, clutching his bag to his chest. Through a gap in the zip, he can just make out the side of Delores’ face and he clutches her tighter.

“You still look like one.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Diego huffs a breath and doesn’t respond and Five resists the urge to shove, hit, or kick him, as well as the urge to continue to curse him out.

They hurry in and Five curls his bloody hand in his sweater, mostly just to stain it, really. “If you tell anyone-“

“Let me guess, you’ll gut me, huh?”

Sitting back with a huff, Five says, “exactly.”

Diego snorts. “Alright, kid.”

Had Five not thought it was childish, he might have just bitten Diego then.

Diego takes him right into the infirmary, setting him on one of the beds. “I’ll go get Mom – I’ll be a second,” he states, and Five just waves him away. He gently sets the bag with Delores down on the ground beside the bed before forcing himself to sit back, waiting for Diego to return with Grace.

He still can’t get over the fact that he really just let something as important as the tracker slip his mind. Getting rid of it should have been the first thing he did as soon as he arrived; he should have taken it out and thrown it somewhere far from the Academy, far from Meritech. He is lucky he noticed himself being followed before he could lead the Commission right to Meritech’s doorstep. He hopes that they haven’t taken notes on where he has been already, however, or he has also just lead them right to the Academy.

He had declared that he would come back and try to save his family only to come back and put them in harm’s way.

Grace’s heels click along the floor as she enters, Diego following after her.

“Oh, dear, what happened to you?” Grace tuts, coming close. “Sit up so we can take that blazer off you.”

In hindsight, Five should have also done that before she came in, but he finds it hard all of a sudden to make his thoughts worth anything. He shrugs painfully out of his blazer, letting it fall over the edge of his bed and onto the floor. He has a whole wardrobe of them upstairs. He tugs his shirt out from where it is tucked into his shorts, grimacing when it tugs his skin, and holds it away from his abdomen.

“That one went straight through,” he tells her, looking up at the ceiling swimming dizzily overhead. “’s one on my arm, too.”

He ends up having to shuck his vest and shirt as well to let Grace get a better look at his wounds, though it isn’t as if those clothes have been completely ruined now.

Diego, for some reason, decides to stay in the room. He grimaces more at the sight of the wound in Five’s abdomen than Five himself, and the way Grace treats it. Five, to his credit, manages to stay awake while Grace works on him, even if the room spins and she has to remind him to take a steady breath every once in a while. The pain lessens with the medication Grace offers him, though the exhaustion and dizziness remains, much to his dismay. So does Diego.

By the time Grace has finished cleaning him up and tending to him, his eyelids are heavy and he struggles to keep them open. With hazy vision, Five stares up at the ceiling swirling miles over his head. He simply cannot take his mind off that tracker, and how he had so easily just forgotten about it. Even if he hadn’t remembered and it hadn’t been written in his journal, it is so obvious; how else would those two assassins manage to follow him so precisely, so swiftly? He can’t afford to be making such stupid mistakes.

“Five?”

Diego’s voice cuts through his thoughts like a knife. He doesn’t look at him, but he does listen. “What happened back there?” He asked. “What was all of that?”

It would take way too long to begin explaining it to Diego, and Diego wouldn’t even understand it in the end anyway. He would probably instead think Five was insane.

Instead of deigning to answer his question, Five lets his eyes close and finally succumbs to sleep.

###

He wakes up to pain, which isn’t as unfamiliar as it ought to be. He takes a moment to mentally assess the feeling and locate it; tests it as he begins to sit up and open his eyes. He must have fallen again; misjudged the stability of a foundation composed of crumbling stones, had it fall out from underneath his feet and the surprise would catch him off guard and send him tumbling.

But then he opens his eyes and he does not see dirt and stone around him; he sees intact buildings and furniture. It doesn’t even belong to the Commission. His mind reels for a moment in confusion, grappling to figure out his situation as swiftly as possible, and then his eyes fall onto Diego’s slumped corpse in the chair nearby – no. Not corpse. Diego himself; snoring and very much alive.

Five stares at his ash-free face with something akin to wonder and fascination in his expression, mentally turning his memories inside out to figure out what the hell is going on. It takes several minutes before the events of yesterday finally hit him, and his childlike hope melts away to shame and irritation.

Somewhat reluctantly, Five turns away from Diego and turns his attention to himself. It is easy to tug out the IV stuck into his hand, administering fluids or painkillers or whatever it is that Grace had been giving him last night, and then he takes a moment to look at his hidden wounds, skilfully dressed and clean.

He lands silently on his feet, sliding off the bed and using it to steady himself, and he is pleased to see he hasn’t woken Diego. Remembering the events of last night, he knows that the moment Diego wakes up and sees Five awake he will want to talk, and Five most certainly does not want to talk. He can’t help but grimace at how poorly things went with Vanya.

With a glance around the infirmary, Five steps over towards the medicine cabinet, takes two times to guess the pin for the lock, and then he sticks his hand in to take a bottle of painkillers. He swallows a dose dry and tucks the bottle inside the pocket of his shorts just in case. Sat on the floor beside it is a bag, and he hurriedly checks inside to see that yes, Delores is still safe inside, and he slings the bag over his uninjured arm. Then, he turns to the heap of his ruined clothes, and he digs his hands into the pockets, relief flooding him when he pulls out both his journal and the prosthetic eye, all intact and safe. With that, he begins to walk, albeit slower than he would like, towards the door. He pauses by it, turning to look at a still-snoring Diego slumped over in the chair beside Five’s bed, and he feels a brief flash of guilt at leaving him. But, he reminds himself, they will have plenty of time to talk later. Five has priorities.

Right now, his first priority is to find a new shirt. He had seen the bloody mess of his shirt, vest and blazer set aside, waiting for Grace to throw the unsalvageable materials out. He still hates the fact that he has to wear the Academy’s uniform after so long, hates that he once more looks like a young schoolboy, but he decides that he can figure out a way to try and revert the changes to his body after he has averted the apocalypse.

By the time he has gotten changed, the painkillers are starting to kick in. It is easier to lift the bag with Delores inside over his shoulder, murmuring a soft apology about jostling her so much, and then he heads back downstairs.

His first stop is Meritech, then. The assassins that attacked him last night no longer have a way to track him down and he didn’t lead them to Meritech, so both the lab and himself should be safe to go to. He can take the van that should, hopefully, still be in the alleyway outside the Academy, and he’ll set up across the street from it before letting himself in and talking to someone and getting the information. Feeling better with a plan in mind, Five lifts his head a little higher, forcing himself to let go of his regrets for his mistakes yesterday, focusing instead on what he can do now.

All of his siblings are thankfully asleep. He takes the chance to duck into the kitchen before leaving, raiding the cupboards until taking an apple from the fruit bowl and heading back out. His eyes stray to the living room doors as he passes and then he pauses in his footsteps, eyes narrowing as he sees a trail of discarded clothes leading to…

Klaus passed out in his underwear on the couch. Five stares at him for a moment, wandering over to hover in the doorway, snoring horrifically loudly. He can imagine the aches he will have once he wakes up, thanks to his awkwardly splayed position on the couch, and it is a miracle he hasn’t smothered himself to death, what with his face shoved into the couch cushions.

They had been close, once. Before Five had left. But they had also been children then, and it is foolish for Five to want the old Klaus – and the old version of himself, too – back. Still, he can’t help but feel bad. Had he travelled further back in time, perhaps he could have stopped Klaus from falling so hard into addiction.

Klaus had never talked much about his powers, but the few things he had to say about them to Five were never positive. Staring at him as he is now, Five suddenly doubts anything would have been enough to save Klaus from his own fear and subsequent addictions.

He swallows and his eyes drift away from his brother and instead to the far end of the room; Reginald’s old bar.

Delores will hate him, and he hates the irony of having to sneak past the drug addict to reach the bar as if he fears Klaus’ hypocritical judgement he might have at seeing Five stuffing bottles of expensive liquor into the bag with Delores (much to her displeasure.)

With one last glance at Klaus, and the sound of floorboards shifting upstairs as someone wakes up, Five hurries out of the Academy. He lets out a sigh of relief when he sees the van sitting there as if just waiting perfectly for him, and he twists space to get inside. He sets the bag with Delores on the passenger’s seat, unzips it and helps her sit up a little, and then he focuses on starting up the van.

“You shouldn’t take so much whiskey with you,” Delores mutters distastefully. Five glances at her from the corner of his eyes and his lips twitch upwards.

“It’s not that much,” he defends lightly. “And the apocalypse altered my appetite. I’m more used to that.”

“Perhaps you ought to try substituting it with water one day,” she says, staring out the front window. “Use this chance not to ruin your liver by your sixteenth birthday.”

Pursing his lips, Five decides not to reply to that. The car groans to life and he drives out of the alleyway, slipping easily onto the road, and then he begins to head to the lab.

“I could have this done by tonight,” he states, tone mixed with something like cockiness and pride in it. He could very well have this done within two hours if everything goes well and the owner of the eye isn’t half way across the city. The idea makes him feel giddy, though it also might be partially blood loss from yesterday still making his head slightly dizzy.

“And then what?” Delores asks, and he pauses.

“What?”

“Oh, not like you to not have every step planned out. You don’t know what you’ll do after you complete your mission?”

Five spares her a glance, running his tongue along his teeth. He… has never thought about what he would do afterwards, actually. He kind of just assumed that he would just… live. Slip back into things peacefully.

“I don’t know,” he admits, jaw tight. He drums his fingers along the steering wheel. Delores hums.

“Maybe that’s a good thing.”

Once more, he has to turn to give her a curious look. She always has been great at making him think, always meeting him head-on and challenging his thoughts. “What do you mean by that?” He asks.

“Like I said; you always have everything planned out. Maybe it’d be nice not to have to do that.”

“Huh,” murmurs Five. He has to force himself to remain focused on the road rather than get tangled up in his own thoughts. “Maybe,” he finally agrees, and falls silent.

It does not take long to reach Meritech, and he parks across the street from it, slightly out of the way. “I won’t be long,” he says, looking at Delores. She has that look to her eyes again; that look she always has whenever he talks about the apocalypse, about fixing it and now, apparently, whenever he actually does something about it. He doesn’t like it. It is as if she knows something about him that he doesn’t even know.

She hums her acknowledgement and turns her gaze to the lab, and Five slips out of the van. He dips one hand into his pocket, closing his fist around the prosthetic eye inside, and then he steels himself and crosses the street.

He lets himself in and steps up to the front desk, clearing his throat to get the attention of the man sitting behind it. “I’m here about a prosthetic,” he states. “Who do I talk to?”

The man eyes Five sceptically, one of his eyebrows arching. Five cocks his head to the side and forces a smile that stretches his cheeks. He tugs the eye out of his pocket, holding it up between his fingers for the man to see but holding it out of his reach, just in case. It seems to sway him into actually letting Five in, telling him to go to the third floor.

He is hardly on the floor for more than a minute before a passing employee takes notice of the child wandering the lobby of the lab. “Uh, can I help you?” He asks, looking at Five with a confused expression. Five turns on his heels and takes a few steps closer; he holds up the prosthetic.

“I need to figure out who this belongs to,” he states.

“Where did you find that?” The man asks, trying to get a better look at the eye in his grasp.

“What do you care?” Retorts Five, before sighing. This would go a lot smoother if he looked his age, but now he has to convince everyone to give him the time of day because he looks like a child. “I found it,” he says. “At a… playground, actually. It must have just… popped right out.” He offers what he hopes, but doubts, is a pleasant smile, and glances down at the eye. “I want to return it to its rightful owner.”

The woman behind the counter on this floor perks up, commenting, “oh, what a thoughtful young man.”

Eager, Five turns his attention to her, maintaining a forced smile. “Yeah. Look up the name for me, will you?”

The woman stops smiling at him and the man he had been talking to decides to interject, saying, “uh, I’m sorry, but patient records are strictly confidential. That means I can’t tell you-“

“I know what it means,” snaps Five, face falling to cold expression. The man continues.

“But I’ll tell you what I can do; I’ll take the eye off your hands and return it to its owner. I’m sure he or she will be very grateful.” He holds his hand out for it expectantly, and Five curls his fist around it, hiding it from view.

“Yeah,” he says, and the smile he offers is more of a threat. “You’re not touching this eye.”

The man pauses, raising his eyebrows, and the pleasantries fall. “Now, you listen here, young man-“

Five is older than this man standing in front of him, but he looks like a god damn child and isn’t even being spoken to seriously. He lunges out, hands curling into the man’s suit to pull him down to Five’s eye level, so close their noses almost touch.

“No,” he hisses. “You listen to me, asshole. I have come a long way for this, through shit your pea brain couldn’t even comprehend, so just give me the information I need and I’ll be on my merry way.”

The man opens his mouth to speak and so Five shakes him a little, leaning even closer. “And if you call me young man one more time, I’m gonna put your head through that damn wall.”

It’s ridiculous enough to look like a child, and even more so to be treated like some stupid, irresponsible, disrespectful _kid_. Had he looked older, he is sure he would have that information by now. And if not, then his intimidation tactics had always worked before during his time in the Commission. And yet –

“Call security,” says the man.

“Already on it,” the woman behind the desk says, raising a phone to her ear.

Five grinds his teeth together and shoves the man back. He holds his gaze for several moments, glaring at him, and then he huffs and turns around, letting himself out before the security can escort him and see his face.

“I take it that went well,” Delores comments in the van upon seeing his sour expression. Five shakes his head in frustration. He wants this done as soon as possible and they are wasting his time.

“I look like a damn child,” he says. “No one will take me seriously.”

He turns to look at the bag at the foot of the chair Delores is sitting on, and he reaches in, grabbing the first bottle his hand touches and pulling it out. He twists the cap off, spares an uncaring glance at the label – so long as he sees a percentage sign, it doesn’t matter what it is – and then takes a swig from it.

“People will take a drunk child even less seriously,” Delores says, and Five entertains the idea of having CPS called on him, and it makes him take another swig. “Getting drunk won’t solve the apocalypse, Five. Your first plan failed; think of something else.”

He pauses in his frustration-fuelled drinking, turning to look at Delores finally. He sighs, letting her words sink into him, letting tension bleed slowly out of his muscles. “You’re right,” he mutters, drumming his fingers along the neck of the bottle. Delores flashes him a smile.

“Of course I’m right. And you shouldn’t drink anymore if you’re planning on using those painkillers in your pocket.”

Reluctantly, Five puts the cap back on the liquor and sits it back into the bag. He folds his arms over his chest and begins to think. He had forgotten about the painkillers, admittedly, but he doubts little more than a few sips with it will have him in the same state as Klaus earlier, unless he has all of the disadvantages of having a thirteen year old body with no tolerance.

He turns his thoughts to Meritech, eying the lab across the street. They won’t take him seriously and he knows if he goes back in there soon then he’ll just be escorted back out. In hindsight, perhaps he shouldn’t have lashed out as he did.

He could break in, he supposes, but he doesn’t know where they keep their records, doesn’t know the codes, or the security measures. It would take him longer to figure out all of that and successfully execute his break in than it would to do anything else. He puts that as his last possible option.

If he looked older, he would have more success in getting that information or getting closer to it, he knows, but he can’t just rapidly age his body.

He could, however, find someone who already is and looks like an adult.

With a brewing plan in his head, Five starts up the van and begins to drive back to the Academy.

Before he goes back inside once more, he says an apology to Delores and returns her to the bag, zipping it up and taking her with him. As he steps inside, walking through the front door, he half-hopes that he has been out long enough for his siblings to get ready and have breakfast and do their own thing, thus decreasing the chances that he might have to talk to any of them – especially Diego or, if she has returned to the Academy, Vanya. He almost thinks he’s safe, too, but he puts his foot on the first step and is promptly yelled at.

“Five! Oh, good morning!”

Five’s eyes slip closed for a moment and he sighs, escape slipping through his fingers like sand, and then he turns around and meets Klaus’ wide eyes. At least, he thinks, he is dressed now, but by the bloodshot look to his eyes, he’s evidently high.

“Afternoon, Klaus,” he corrects, turning around to go up the stairs. His brother simply scurries after him.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, same thing, really,” Klaus dismisses. “But, long time no see! Right? So, how’s it going? Where were you this morning? What’s in the bag? Have you got any plans for the day? How was last night?”

“What are you doing?” He asks, turning around to look up at him once they reach the top of the stairs. Klaus gives him an innocent look.

“What am _I_ doing? What are _you_ doing? I’m doing nothing.”

“Obviously,” Five mutters, rolling his eyes, and he continues on his way to his bedroom, but Klaus follows him like a shadow.

“I was just thinking, everyone else is out and about, doing their own thing – actually, hey, Diego was looking for you earlier, but I kind of told him to fuck off sort of, sorry – but anyway, maybe we could hang out? Huh? What’d you say?”

Klaus hovers in Five’s doorway, eyes wide and bright and lined by smudged makeup and shadows. He looks both parts hopeful, as if he genuinely just wants to hang out with Five again, but he also has a glint to his eyes as if he’s _meddling_.

Delores weighs on his shoulder and he pauses before he tells Klaus to get out of his room. He narrows his eyes in thought and, debating whether or not he will come to majorly regret this, he asks, “have you got a suit? A nice outfit?”

Klaus cocks his head to the side. “Oh? Of course I do! Are we doing a fashion show?”

Five jerks his head to the door. “Go put on your nicest outfit,” he requests. Klaus blinks, then looks elsewhere, raising his eyebrows at nothing before looking back at Five.

“I love a good surprise,” he says, smiling, and then ducks out of the room to go to his own. Five sighs, setting his bag gently down on his bed, and then he leans against the wall by his window. Is it really a good idea to ask Klaus, of all people, to help?

But he can’t ask Diego, nor can he ask Vanya. Luther would be too nosey and he has no idea where Allison is; thus leaving only Klaus.

He wishes Ben were here.

The thought hits him suddenly and he sighs, slumping, letting his gaze drift out his window. He straightens up a bit, however, and from his window he is able to see the street, and thus able to see as Vanya walks down the street and disappears inside the doors. If he strains his ears, he can hear her footsteps downstairs, coming slowly closer.

“What about this?” Klaus asks, standing in his doorway and gesturing himself up and down with a grin.

“Come here,” says Five, reaching out to snag Klaus’ wrist. He pulls him into his room and, just like he feared, he hears Vanya call his name. Klaus gives him a curious look, eyebrows arched.

Vanya won’t like the idea of him turning to other siblings or trying to wrap them up in what she believes is just some delusion, and when he thinks about it he decides it would be for the best if she thinks he has gotten over it anyway; it will let her relax and stay out of his way and not get dragged into his mess, especially with his slip-up with the tracker. Hazel and Cha-Cha could have tracked him down to her apartment if they had been quicker.

With nowhere else to push Klaus, for she is now in the corridor and would see Klaus if he shoved him out of his bedroom, Five does the only thing he can; he opens his closet and urges Klaus into it.

“Hey – wait, what are you – oh, come on, I already came out of one of these, Five-“

He laughs at his own joke to himself, compliantly folding up his limbs to fit in the closet as he snickers, and Five wonders just how high he is; high enough, at least, to stay quiet when Five closes the doors as much as he can.

Just in time, Vanya steps into his room.

“Oh, thank god,” she says, sighing in visible relief. “I was worried sick about you last night.”

Turning away from where he had stood by his window once more, Five nods his head. “Sorry I left without saying goodbye,” he says, and he takes a step closer to her. Vanya shakes her head.

“No, look – I’m the one who should be saying sorry. Yeah, I was dismissive and I – I didn’t know how to process what you were saying,” she explains. “And I still can’t, to be honest.”

Before she can continue, Five takes the chance to interrupt. “Maybe you were right to be dismissive,” he says, and as he says it he tries to recall the details of their conversation last night and finds that he… can’t. He can’t remember her true reaction to his revelation about the apocalypse, either. He turns away, hiding the way his face twists. “Maybe it wasn’t real,” he scoffs, even if saying that makes him feel sick. But it’s for the best if Vanya thinks it wasn’t real; thinks he believes that, too. “It felt real. Well… like you said, the old man did say time travel could contaminate the mind.” He turns back to her, retracing his steps to be closer, watching her reaction carefully. Vanya nods at him, flexes her hands by her sides and ponders her next words.

“Then maybe I’m not the right person you should be talking to,” she says. “Look… I used to see someone. A therapist. I could give her your information,” she offers, and Five resists the urge to scoff the idea away. People think he is simply a stupid child; his sister thinks he needs a therapist. It digs beneath his skin.

“Thanks,” he forces himself to say. “But I think I’m just gonna get some rest.” He nods his head at his bed with that. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a good sleep.” And, well, that isn’t a lie at all. It has been an eternity since he last slept well.

Vanya sighs softly, nodding. “Okay,” she murmurs. She lingers for a moment, awkward and uncertain, and then she nods again and turns around and leaves. Five watches her go, hovering by his doorframe.

Klaus shoves the closet doors open, kicking out half of its contents and letting them all crash loudly to the ground. He unfurls his limbs, blinking a dazed look from his eyes. “That’s so…” He pauses to gasp, stumbling over something he dragged out of the closet with him before continuing. “Touching. All that stuff about family and Dad and time… wow!”

“Would you shut up?” Five hissed, closing his door. “She’ll hear you!”

“I’m moist,” Klaus drawls, drawing a disgusted look from Five; it only deepens when he finally looks at what he’s wearing.

“I told you to put on something professional,” he says, gesturing at his shirt. “What the hell is that?”

Klaus looks hurt at that, eyebrows furrowing. “What? This is my nicest outfit.” He gestures himself up and down, frowning, and Five sighs, shaking his head.

“We’ll raid the old man’s closet,” he says, jerking his head for Klaus to follow him; which, unsurprisingly, he does.

“So,” he says, dogging his heels. “Care to share what’s going on, mon frère?”

“I need you to act like an adult,” Five states. “I need to get information from somewhere but they don’t take me seriously because I look thirteen years old.”

“Oh,” Klaus says, looking to the side. “So, I need to act like your papa, huh?”

Sighing, Five nods. “Yes. I just need you to pretend to be my father so I can get in there. I’ll do the talking.”

Klaus hums and, blissfully, falls quiet. For about seven seconds.

“Hey, wait, Five,” he says, and reaches out to grab his shoulder just before they reach Reginald’s bedroom. “We should have a backstory,” he says, and Five narrows his eyes at him.

“What?”

“Our cover story!” He exclaims excitedly. “Was I really young when I had you? Like, sixteen? Like, young and terribly misguided?”

Rolling his eyes, Five shrugs. “Sure,” he says, just to entertain him, and then he opens the door and they step into Reginald’s forbidden bedroom, heading for the wardrobe.

“Your mother,” says Klaus, still talking. “That slut. Whoever she was. We met in…” He pauses, thinking, and then smiles fondly. “The disco.” Five, one hand on the wardrobe, has to stop and just eye Klaus in disbelief that he is, somehow, still talking about this. “Remember that, okay?” He says, coming forwards and opening the wardrobe, and then freezing as another thought comes to him for his little story. “Oh, the sex was amazing though.”

Five blinks. “What a disturbing insight into that little thing you call a brain,” he utters, shaking his head. Klaus jabs a finger at him.

“I’ll put you in time out, kid. Also! Hey, what am I getting out of this?”

“What do you mean?” Five scoffs. “You volunteered yourself for this.”

Klaus pauses. Then he drops the suit in his hands and folds his arms over his chest. “I officially retract my role. What do I get if I generously do this for you?”

Five’s eyes go up to the sky and he exhales slowly, trying to find some of the patience he had in the apocalypse. Maybe he should have just went for Luther instead. “Ten dollars,” he offers.

“Thirty,” Klaus says, eyes glinting.

“Fifteen,” says Five.

“Forty,” says Klaus.

“Five.”

“Twenty-five.”

“Twenty. Take it or leave it.”

Frowning, Klaus nods. “Fine. Hand it over.”

“After the job’s done, I’ll pay you,” he says. Klaus sticks his hand out.

“Deal.”

Reluctantly, Five shakes his hand, then nudges him closer to the wardrobe. “Pick a suit. You have five seconds,” he adds, seeing the thoughtful look that crosses his brother’s face. Pouting, Klaus sticks his hand into the wardrobe, pulls out the first one he grabs, and then he takes a few steps away and begins to pull it on.

“Better?” He asks, doing the last button up, and Five purses his lips. It is ill-fitting and Klaus does not suit it at all, but he nods.

“Much. Come on, let’s go.”

Klaus eagerly follows him outside, but when they approach the van he pauses and says, “I can’t drive.”

“I can,” says Five, giving him a look and then gesturing to the passenger’s seat. “Get in.”

Klaus hesitates, giving thin air an incredulous look as if he thinks he is on some hidden camera TV show, but he gets in.

“I’ll do the talking, alright?” Five says when they park, giving Klaus a serious look. “Just sit there and pretend to be my father.”

Klaus lifts his hands in the air. “Easiest twenty bucks I’ve ever made,” he simply says, then follows Five out of the van. Just before they reach the door, Klaus snags his sleeve and says, “remember the cover story, right?”

Pulling his sleeve free, Five gives him a look. “What cover story? We don’t need a cover story, idiot,” he says, and then steps inside. Klaus lingers for a moment before following.

The woman behind the counter on the third floor sits up when she sees Five, already reaching for the phone to alert security, but Five offers what he hopes is a deceptively sweet smile.

“No need,” he says. “I’m just here to apologise. That’s all I’d like to do; my father is here too, and he’d like to speak to that man I spoke to earlier in private.” Klaus lifts his hand and wiggles his fingers in a wave. The woman doesn’t look convinced. “Five minutes,” Five says. “That’s all I’m asking for. To apologise.”

Sighing, the woman puts the phone down. “I’ll go see if he’ll take you,” she says, and Five offers a wider smile. He and Klaus linger in the lobby, and he watches through the glass walls as she enters the man’s office and speaks with him, nodding in their direction. Eventually, though, he sees the man nod, and the woman comes back out.

“Five minutes,” she repeats, and Five grins.

“Thanks,” he says, then grabs Klaus’ sleeve and tugs him in his direction when he seems too fascinated in a picture on the wall.

“Hello again,” says the man. “Please, sit.”

He gestures to the two empty seats opposite his desk, one of which Klaus easily sinks into. Five remains standing. The man simply shrugs and says, “what can I do for you now?”

Through gritted teeth, Five says, “I’d like to apologise for my behaviour from earlier. I lashed out. I’m sorry.” His hand twitches. The man nods, offering a smile.

“All is forgiven. Now-“

“But,” Five interjects, stepping closer. “I still really need that information.”

The smile drops off his face and he sighs, turning his gaze to Klaus and brushing him off. “Like I told your son earlier, any information about the prosthetics we build is strictly confidential. Without the client’s consent, I simply can’t help you.”

“Well, we can’t get consent if you don’t give us a name,” Five states, resting his hands on the desk and cocking his head to the side. The man shrugs.

“That’s not my problems. Sorry, but there’s really nothing else I can do, so-“

“What about _my_ consent?”

Five startles slightly at Klaus, turning to look at him with a warning – he had told him that he would be doing the talking – but Klaus’ eyes are trained on the desk.

“I’m sorry?” Says the doctor. Klaus decidedly ignores Five’s look, pushing forwards.

“Who gave you permission… to lay your hands…” His voice trembles, shaking slightly, and Five narrows his eyes at Klaus. He can’t fathom what he is trying to do. “On my son?”

“What?” Both he and the doctor say in unison, giving Klaus confused looks.

“You heard me,” Klaus says, pointing a finger at Five.

“I… didn’t touch your son,” says the man, sounding confused but worried at the allegation. Klaus raises his eyebrows.

“Oh, really? Well, then how did he get that swollen lip, then?” He asks, sitting forwards before rising to his feet.

“He doesn’t have a swollen-“

Klaus hits him.

The force shocks him at first – Klaus certainly didn’t hold back on the hit – and he lifts a hand to his now-busted lip, shaking his head and giving Klaus a wild look, but Klaus has already moved on, getting closer to the doctor.

“I want it. Name, please. Now,” he demands.

“You’re crazy,” accuses the doctor, and Klaus laughs.

“You got no idea,” he says, grinning, and then he looks down at the little snow globe on the man’s desk. He lifts it up, turning it in his hands to read; “ _peace on earth._ How sweet.”

Without any further warning, Klaus slams the ornament into his head and cries out. Glass and glitter goes everywhere and blood trickles from a cut on his head, and Five takes a step back.

“God! That _hurt_.”

With wide eyes, the doctor stares at Klaus, then he lunges for the phone. “I’m calling security,” he says, only he doesn’t finish the sentence; Klaus lunges forwards, tears the phone from his hand and yells into it.

“There’s been an assault in Mr. Big’s office. We need security, now. Schnell!”

He throws the phone back onto the receiver, shakes water from his face, and then leans on the desk. “You listen here, Grant. In about sixty seconds, two security guards are gonna burst through that door, and they’re gonna see a whole lot of blood and they’re gonna wonder – _what the hell happened here?_ And we’re going to tell them that _you_ … beat the shit out of us!” He makes his voice wobble with emotion at the end before he bursts out into a grin, laughing and standing up, and Five – honestly, he’s slightly in awe of his outburst that has evidently shaken Mr. Big and could very well get him what he wants.

“You’re gonna do great in prison, Grant – trust me, I’ve been there. Little piece of chicken like you – oh my god, you’re gonna get passed around like a…” He trails off, then grins and waves a hand to dismiss what he was saying. “You’re just – you’re gonna do great! That’s all I’m saying.”

“Jesus, you are a real sick bastard,” says the doctor, voice shaking slightly.

“Thank you,” says Klaus, and then he spits a shard of glass out his mouth.

Perhaps taking Klaus had not been such a bad idea after all. Thanks to his violent outburst that Five had not at all anticipated, Mr. Big takes them back to another room where all of the records are held, and he begins hurriedly looking for them as Five reads off the serial number on the prosthetic eye for him whilst Klaus stands right next to him, pressed against his side and invading his personal space, only making him even more uncomfortable and eager to get them the hell out of there.

He pulls out a file and opens it to a page, scanning it, and then says, “oh, that’s strange…”

“What?” Five asks, leaning forwards.

“The eye,” he says. “It hasn’t been purchased by a client yet.”

“What? What do you mean?” Klaus asks, pressing into his side and leaning over him to peer into the file.

“Uh, the – the logs, they say that the eye with that serial number it – well. This can’t be right. It says that the eye hasn’t even been manufactured yet.” He pauses, frowning at the files before looking up at Five. “Where did you get that eye?” He asks.

Five’s stomach sinks.

The eye hasn’t even been made yet. It completely annihilates his plans to track down the owner and eliminate them today, successfully averting the apocalypse. It cuts his time frame down significantly. What if it isn’t made until the day before the apocalypse is supposed to happen? He’ll have hardly any time to find the owner’s information and find them by then.

Five looks to Klaus and jerks his head to the door. Without another word, he strides out, his brother trailing behind, and they leave the lab on the receiving end of many looks. Klaus walks with a pep in his step, chuckling as they get out.

“I was good, wasn’t I?” He says, snickering. “What about _my_ consent, bitch – that was a good one.”

“Klaus, it doesn’t matter,” Five stresses, putting a damper on his high pitched laughter.

“What?” He groans. “What? What’s even the big deal with the eye anyway?” He asks, gesturing vaguely with his hands.

Five can’t help stalking closer, frustration bubbling over as he says, “there is somebody out there that is going to lose an eye in the next – few days-“ he grits his teeth and looks away, cheeks heating shamefully, and he powers on. “And they’re going to bring about the end of life on this Earth as we know it.”

He shakes his head, walking away so Klaus can’t see how shameful he looks, digging his nails into the palms of his hands. Klaus is quiet for a moment before saying, “yeah, okay. Can I get my twenty bucks now or what?”

Five turns around, giving him a look. “What twenty bucks?” He scoffs. Klaus moans, slumping.

“Don’t tell me you forgot about that _too_ ,” he whines, and Five bristles.

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he snaps, glaring at him. Klaus – he can’t know – how could he know? He hasn’t spoken to anyone about it – he wouldn’t have. Unless he had forgotten that, too, and his blood runs cold.

“First the cover story, now my money-“

“I don’t forget things, Klaus,” he hisses, glowering at his brother. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t say shit like that, you useless _idiot_ -“

Klaus raises his eyebrows, sharing a look with the air beside him as if he’s just trying to mock Five, and if he _knows_ -

An empty taxi drives down the road. Five all but throws himself through space to reach it, to get away from Klaus, and grits out the address of the Academy.

He does have twenty bucks in his pocket, he realises. He uses it to pay the driver and tries not to think about why he would have brought it – surely not for Klaus – and then, pushing himself a little further despite the growing ache in his abdomen and the dizziness it brings him, he crushes space and steps into his bedroom.

Delores greets him with a knowing look, and Five brushes it off like he always does. Instead, he reaches for that bottle of liquor he had opened earlier, letting the burn in his throat outweigh the pounding of his heart and the yelling thoughts that he hasn’t got time to sit around and forget such simple things.

As he sits down on his bed, he realises he can’t remember how he got home.

Five drinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts!!  
> Writing Klaus from an outsider's POV is great because I get to realise just how much of a weirdo he truly is


	4. Lost With Everyone

Five wakes up with a splitting headache. For a moment he wonders if he has gone and cracked his head open on something with how strong it is, but the pain isn’t radiating from a wound; it is simply one hell of a headache. He squirms slowly, then freezes when he feels not shifting stone digging into him, but something soft, something unfamiliar.

He peels his eyes open, ignoring the way it makes his headache worsen. The feeling of a bottleneck in his hand is familiar but the old, forgotten comfort of a mattress beneath his body is not. Nauseous and sick as he feels, he can still take note of his surroundings and push through his hazy mind to be alert.

Looking around his surroundings, Five expects to see crumbling walls and a sandy sky. The last thing he expects to see is a ceiling, and yet there is one hanging over himself and not crumbling at all. The walls around himself too are intact. It’s…

He’s in the Academy. He’s in his own bedroom. Equations stare down at him from his walls, scrawled across them in chalk, chipped apart slightly. There’s a full-body ache that steals his breath for a moment. It feels even worse than the pain that usually accompanies a ruthless training session with Reginald. 

His eyes flutter around his bedroom, taking it in, and then they bounce to the window. Light streams into his bedroom and he panics for a moment. How late is it? Has he missed breakfast? Training?

Reginald will be pissed.

He clambers out of bed - stumbles, catches himself - and has to pause for a moment to let the world settle around him, but while his body lights up with angry pain, his head tingles and he’s hit with an odd sense of deja vu; a creeping sense of dread weighing down on him.

He’s in his bedroom, in the Academy, and something is _wrong._

He looks around his room once more, eyes narrowed. His bedroom looks fine. It looks how it should. It looks how he… remembers?

The bag, though, and the alcohol - those don’t belong here, but they don’t feel wrong either. He stares at them for a long moment before making his way over to the bag. He crouches above it, grimacing at the pain it brings in his abdomen, and he reaches out and -

 _Oh._ Of course. It’s Delores; of course it is. He breathes out a sigh of relief, tension in his shoulders bleeding at the sight of her.

“Five,” she says in greeting, scrutinising him.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice comes out rough. Under Delores’ scrutiny, he falters for a moment, and that _wrong_ feeling crashes over him again. 

Delores shouldn’t be in the Academy, should she?

He blinks rapidly, swallows around the growing lump in his throat, and doesn’t voice the question forming in his mind, but by the look on Delores’ face, she already knows - knows the question he has, knows the answer, too.

Gently, he sets her back down in the bag she’s in, positioning her in a way that she can see out of it, and then he slings it over his less-sore shoulder. He turns, stares at his bedroom door, and strains his ears to listen for anything out of the ordinary.

He isn’t exactly sure what is and isn’t the ordinary, at the moment. 

He doesn’t hear anything. He creeps forwards, nudges the door open and then slips out of it, looking around. The Academy is quiet and empty, void of his siblings sneaking into one another’s bedrooms or running around before a mission; void of ash and dust. 

He shakes off that feeling again. He ought to find someone - if there’s anyone to find. His siblings? Grace? Reginald?

It looked early when he woke up. Maybe everyone’s at breakfast.

(Why didn’t Grace wake him up, then?)

(When was the last time they all had breakfast together?)

He reaches the top of the stairs when he finally sees someone; Grace, standing and idly staring at her paintings with a smile across her face. 

“Mom?” he says, creeping closer. When she doesn’t turn or respond, he repeats her name.

“Oh,” she says, eyebrows raising. “You’re up early, dear. You know you need to rest.”

“Right…” he murmurs, frowning. He does feel horrible (what happened?) but he can’t quite bring himself to check why, yet. That feeling of dread just grows stronger at the idea of doing that. 

Feeling unnerved by Grace’s unwavering smile and her overly-cheery tone, Five slips around her. She doesn’t comment on it, but her gaze lingers on him for a moment longer before she returns her attention to her paintings. Exhaling slowly, Five turns and begins walking in the direction of Reginald’s office.

This is wrong, he thinks. This is all wrong. He shouldn’t even be going to Reginald’s office. Why would he? Why wouldn’t he? He can’t quite tell, anymore.

“Five,” says Delores, slightly muffled from within the bag on his shoulder. “Think about what you’re doing. Sit down and think for a minute.”

He should follow her advice. She’s always right, always one step ahead of him - he’s lucky to have her. 

However, he can’t quite stop himself. He reaches Reginald’s office, staring at the doors shutting him out of it, and he reaches out and pushes them apart.

The office is empty. Reginald isn’t anywhere to be seen, not haunting this room like he always is, and Five stares at the space as if expecting it to change and for his father to suddenly reappear. He won’t, of course. Five knows he won’t. Reginald’s gone, and Five knows this, even if he can’t quite place why, or where he went, or when he left, but he _knows_ this.

Despite all of that, he still hesitantly calls out, “Dad?”

“Five?”

Startling, Five turns around quickly, reflex making him bring his hands up, but the man in front of him - although intimidating, he makes no move to reach for Five, much less hurt him. He towers above him, blue eyes creased with a frown, short hair slightly askew. He glances over Five’s shoulder, shifts a little, then takes a step forwards, reaching a hand out-

“What are you doing here? Diego told us you got hurt-”

Five’s gone before he can finish the sentence; before he can reach him.

The jump through space is a little jarring, especially when he doesn’t have an exact location in mind to go to. He just needs to get away; get away from the Academy, where everything is _wrong,_ where Grace is acting weird and where Reginald isn’t, and where that man looks oddly familiar but just as wrong and knows he’s hurt-

“Five, you need to calm down.”

Right. Delores is here.

(That’s wrong too, isn’t it?)

“Delores,” he says, but it comes out strained, pain in his gut making him breathless. He sinks to his knees in the alleyway he’s thrown himself into, hands flying to the source of his pain but the touch just makes it worse. The bag and Delores falls to the ground beside him, but she doesn’t sound mad at him for dropping him.

“What-”

“Sit down, Five, and _breathe,_ ” she tells him, and he obeys, flopping down onto the floor and leaning back against the wall. With shaky fingers, he pulls up his vest and shirt, and he sees bandaging around his abdomen, spotted with red. 

Well, that would certainly explain why he feels so horrible, and why Grace said he ought to rest, and what that man meant when he said he knew he was hurt, although it doesn’t explain the tingling in his head, the disorientation and confusion plaguing him.

He shoves his shirt back down, screws his eyes shut, and tries to compose himself. It’s okay. He’s okay - somewhat, anyway. Panicking will do him no good, and he knows this, it’s been ingrained into him.

He needs to compose himself, and he needs to figure out what’s happening - what’s _happened_.

When his chest doesn’t feel so tight, he cracks his eyes open and looks around. He’s thrown himself into a random, insignificant alleyway. He can hear people and vehicles busy outside of it, the city he’s in awake and alive despite Grace calling it early. 

He turns his gaze to Delores, gazing back at him patiently, a gentle expression on her face. “What do you remember, Five?” She asks, and the question strikes something deep in him. He freezes, body tensing. 

_What do you remember, Five?_

How many times has she asked him that?

She meets his gaze calmly, level-headed and patient, and it helps to keep him calm as well. 

(God, he’s lucky to have her. No one else understands him like she does, and no one else can calm him like she does. He knows, without a doubt, that he can trust her completely, and can let his guard down around her.)

“The… Academy,” he utters, although that isn’t exactly an answer to her question. She hums anyway. “This has happened before,” he states. 

“And what did you do each time before?”

Five blinks, and he tries to think. He blinks and his eyes stay closed for a moment. 

When he opens them again, he reaches for the bag Delores is slouched in, reaches past her, and his fingers brush familiar leather. He tugs the journal out of the bag and sits back with it, and he feels a little more tension leave him, as if this little book will ensure that everything will be okay.

With a final glance at Delores, Five opens the book to the first page, and begins to skim over it. By the time he catches up with last night’s scrawled entry, he feels like a complete idiot. 

He just ran from his family while they’re already concerned. That was - that must have been Luther, by Reginald’s office. Diego’s the one who found him when he got hurt - got shot, twice, by two members of The Commission following him. 

He ought to go back to them. Talk to them, or at least let Grace check him over again.

He also doesn’t have time for that right now. If the journal is to be trusted (and it has to be trusted) then his only lead for the apocalypse has turned out to be a dead end. He needs to keep an eye on Meritech. 

(For what? The eye hasn’t been made yet. He doesn’t know any of the doctors or patients or have any other lead. What is he supposed to do? Interrogate every single customer and every single employee?)

(Begrudgingly, he scribbles that idea down in his journal, because as horrible a plan that might be, it might be the only option he has in the end.)

“How are you?”

He’s jolted out of his thoughts by Delores’ voice, and he turns to look at her. With a sigh, he closes the journal and just holds it in his hands, letting the familiar weight of it comfort him a little. “Time’s running out,” he states, staring just over her head, not able to make himself meet her gaze.

“You have enough time to be able to do this,” she reassures him. “You know where the eye will be made and where the owner has to come for it. You have your family who would be willing to help you, if you just spoke to them.”

Five frowns, looking away and pressing his lips together. He knows his siblings would (probably) trip over themselves to help him, but he’s already made a mistake. He forgot that The Commission put a tracker on him, and had agents been assigned to follow him any earlier - or any later, if he never remembered it in the end - then they could have attacked his siblings. Had they followed him to Vanya’s? He could have easily gotten his most vulnerable sister killed within hours of being back here.

So, no. Five can’t go to them. He can’t drag them into this mess, can’t put them on the line. He has Delores, he has his journal; he has lived decades like this. He’ll fix this mess himself, and once he knows his siblings are safe, he will tell them everything. Or at least what they need to know - the finer details can probably be spared.

Exhaling slowly, Five steels himself a little more. He’ll go and keep an eye on Meritech today, but he’ll have to make a point of visiting the Academy again today, just to make sure The Commission hasn’t attacked. 

Ideally, he’d check more often, but he has to trust that his siblings can stand their own in a fight. He can’t risk leaving Meritech.

Swiftly, he digs around for a pen in his bag, and he hurries to open to a new space in his journal - he’s running out of room, he notices - to add an update to his mental state so he can record the deterioration, as much as he hates to confront it. 

Although calming down and reading his journal has jogged his memory a little, he can’t come up with more than flashes of memories, and he doubts that’s a good sign for the future. It had taken a few weeks before he had begun slipping in the apocalypse, hadn’t it? Now it’s hardly been a couple of days. 

He hardly has a week before the apocalypse is supposed to happen, and he wonders if he’ll even make it a week at this rate. However, he quickly shoves that thought away. He will make it, because he has to.

“Five…” says Delores, tone warning. She probably knows what he’s decided on doing already.

He sets his journal inside his blazer, pressed close against himself protectively, and then he makes sure Delores is comfortable in the bag before standing up and lifting her over his shoulder. 

“We need to go,” he says, turning to the mouth of the alleyway and ignoring Delores’ disappointed, resigned sigh. 

Swallowing down the pain in his abdomen, Five takes a step forwards onto the street and pauses. Tilting his head down towards Delores, he asks, “do you remember the way?”

### 

Five sets up camp opposite Meritech with Delores. 

Honestly, he isn’t entirely sure what he’s looking for, and there’s no promise that the person he’s looking for will even come today. 

Five has never exactly been the most patient person, especially not when every minute ticking away is a minute closer to doomsday, to the death of his entire family, but there’s nothing he can do. He won’t attempt to jump a day or two into the future in the hopes of quickly getting the prosthetic eye’s information, so he simply has to sit it out and wait, hoping that he catches sight of someone with one missing eye. 

The odds aren’t in his favour, but Five resigns himself to waiting, and gets as comfortable as he can.

Unsurprisingly, nothing significant happens for a while. The streets get busier as time passes by, and he has to scrutinise people harder as they head into the lab, but he never actually sees anyone missing an eye - or not that he notices, at least. 

(There’s too many variables. They could already have a prosthetic and be getting a new one; they could have it delivered to them instead of picking it up, he might just simply not even notice it. It’s a terrible plan, but he can’t think of anything better just yet.)

Still, he sits and waits and watches, even when it gets colder and he tries to burrow slightly into his blazer in an attempt at finding some more warmth, and he finds both his head and his eyelids to grow heavier, both drooping often without him noticing it. 

He has some brief thought about the distant ache and throb in his arm and abdomen, but with his tired attention focused on Meritech, he shoves it aside, determined to focus on the prosthetic eye. 

His eyes flutter shut, and his head droops. A breeze chills his exposed skin and he barely represses a shudder, and his stomach twinges with a familiar ache, and he’s suddenly reminded of the horrible fatigue and hunger that became a close friend to him in the apocalypse. When was the last time he ate? He ought to check his resources; ought to go out looking for more. 

But it’s cold, and he’s tired, and he feels as if he could just fall asleep any second now. 

When his eyes pry open again, he’s fallen onto his side and the buildings around him are intact and not crumbling, and his ears are ringing and his hands are so cold. 

A voice that sounds suspiciously like Delores in his head rattles off the dangers of not looking after himself, lectures him, and he’s reminded of how he needs to look out for himself. No one else is here to do that for him.

With shaky hands, Five pushes himself upright, steadying himself when the world tilts. He probably needs to eat something, or drink something, but the damp patch on his shirt catches his attention first.

Didn’t someone say something about him getting hurt recently?

He blinks over at Delores, sitting and staring up at him as if she’s watching the cogs in his head turn before she supplies, “bandages, food, water.”

“Right,” he mumbles, lifting her up once more. His eyes bounce to Meritech across the street from him and they narrow. He shouldn’t leave. He has something to do here, he’s sure.

He won’t do much good if he passes out, though. 

With a final glance at it, Five begins to walk down the street in search for a store. He ignores the looks he’s given - he saw his reflection in a window he passed, and he isn’t as shocked as he probably should be to see his thirteen year-old reflection staring back at him - and manages to find a place that sells what he needs, although he doesn’t have any intentions of actually paying for anything. As much as the idea of jumping through space almost turns his stomach, what with the state he’s in, he hasn’t got much of a choice in the matter. 

With some ready-made sandwich, a bottle of water and some gauze, Five braces himself before jumping outside of the shop. As expected, he stumbles and has to hold himself up against a wall until the world stops spinning, but as soon as it does, he sits down and starts trying to tend to himself a bit.

He’s taken care of worse wounds than a gunshot, in worse conditions. He can push through this one by himself too, and he’s almost a little confused as to why he seems to be coping with it so poorly at the moment until he realises that a thirteen year-old body probably can’t cope with such an injury. For a moment, he mourns his actual body, however old he was, but perhaps he can figure out how to fix that later. Once he has averted the apocalypse and returned to his family. 

Just to make Delores happy, Five finishes both the sandwich and the water, and he sits for a little while longer, waiting to feel any better. He should have taken painkillers while in the store, but he hadn’t thought of them at the time. Maybe he could get Grace to give him some.

He remembers times he would catch something or feel poorly after training, and he remembers how Grace would card her fingers through his hair, how she’d make his favourite snacks for him, make the perfect hot chocolate to help him relax. Maybe she could do that again if he asks.

“Five.”

His head snaps up, turning heavily in Delores’ direction.

“You can’t fall asleep out here, Five,” she tells him. Right, he has a job to do, doesn’t he? He can’t be wasting time. But then Delores adds, “you should go home and rest. You won’t be able to keep an eye on Meritech if you can’t stay awake, and without proper rest and treatment, you’ll only get worse.”

She’s right, of course. She always is, but Five has always been horribly stubborn. He rises to his feet and picks her up once more. “I need to watch for the prosthetic,” he states, peering around himself to try and figure out where he is and where the lab is. 

“You need to rest,” insists Delores, her voice firm and unamused with him. 

“Soon,” he promises, not meeting her eyes.

“You can lie better than that, Five.”

Five frowns at her, brows furrowing, but she just meets his gaze head-on like always. With a sigh, his shoulders slump and he looks away. 

“Alright, fine,” he says. “We’ll walk by Meritech, though, and then I’ll go.”

Satisfied, Delores hums and settles down, and they begin to walk back in the direction of Meritech. He knows that a quick glance over won’t do anything, but he won’t risk just walking away from it on the off chance he misses who he’s looking for. 

However, the further he walks, the more he wonders if he’s making the right decision instead of just immediately returning to the Academy to rest, because he swears he can smell smoke stinging his nose, and it only keeps getting stronger. For a moment he has to pause and stand there, looking around himself to reassure that no, nothing around him is on fire, nothing is crumbling apart. 

Then he reaches Meritech. 

Smoke hangs heavy in the air, billowing out of Meritech’s broken windows while flames chase after it, licking high up into the sky. Every floor seems devoured by flames, embers fluttering through the sky to reach him, and Five’s stomach drops.

What happened? He couldn’t have been gone that long - not long enough for the entire place to go up in flames. All the prosthetics, all the records, his only lead; all gone in a handful of minutes. 

He knew he shouldn’t have left. Could he have stopped this from happening if he had been here? Could he have at least gotten in and grabbed some records before everything burned?

Either way, it’s too late. Five messed up, again, and the eye is gone, and he has no idea who is going to cause the apocalypse. He stands, frozen to the spot in front of the lab, staring up at it while smoke burns his throat, and he’s only moved when the ground floor explodes and throws him back. 

The feeling of sharp rocks and debris beneath him is familiar; so is the smell of smoke and taste of ash. The flicker of flames warm his skin and dance over his eyelids and he struggles to open them for several moments. 

He isn’t any more reassured when he does manage to open them, only coming face to face with a burning, crumbling building, and ash everywhere, and oh, the apocalypse is still here. It never left - or did he never leave? How could he have, anyway? 

He shuffles along the floor, pushing himself back from the building - as disoriented as he might feel, he’s not dumb enough to just sit in front of a crumbling building, and he’s had enough of falling debris injuring him - before he turns slowly to look around himself. 

There are people.

Instead of a mess of abandoned buildings in varying states of ruin, there are people. People on the streets, paused and staring up at the building he was, people taking cautious steps back, a couple of people staring straight at him, concern in their eyes and trying to get him to go to them.

But everyone’s dead.

Five would know. He only ever had Delores. 

The ringing in his ears disappears, giving way to the deafening crackle of fire, of stones under boots, of people talking loudly. Someone takes a step closer to him, and panic shoots through him. He scrambles onto his feet, hand lashing out to grab the bag Delores is in, and he runs in the opposite direction of all the people.

(Ghosts? He’s not supposed to be able to see them, but everyone is dead.)

(The Commission, watching him?)

(Who are The Commission?)

By the time Five stops running, it’s mainly due to the fact that his legs aren’t being entirely cooperative with him. His knees tremble and he fears that if he doesn’t stop running now, then he’ll only end up collapsing later. So, he ducks into the nearest building, because it holds a little familiarity to him and there are few people in there (and he’s so cold again, he doesn’t want to stay outside any longer.) 

He weaves through shelves full of books, not sparing any of them a glance despite how they all seem to be in surprisingly good condition for an apocalypse. He keeps moving until he’s far from any other people, far in the back of the library, hidden away in a corner surrounded by hardly-touched books.

Clutching Delores to his chest, Five slides down the wall until he’s sitting, trembling knees grateful for the break.

He’s sure Delores must be saying something to him, but he needs a moment to calm his frayed nerves for a moment. He should probably listen to her, though; she always knows better than him. 

For now, though, he just takes comfort in her familiar weight in his arms, despite the way she digs slightly into a spot in his stomach that makes the world go grey around the edges. He just holds onto her, and waits for the smell of smoke to disappear, for the little flakes of ash to retreat from the corners of his vision.

### 

There are hands on him; hands on his shoulders, shaking him slightly. Another hand cups his cheek, and he flinches away from the touch, suddenly reminded of someone - a woman, with blonde hair and red lips and cold, cold eyes and hands always looking to touch - but the hand just follows him.

“Five,” a person says. It isn’t Delores so he doesn’t care. 

“Told you he was hurt,” mutters someone else. He wonders if he’s surrounded. He wonders if he should be more worried. Those damn hands won’t stop touching him. He ought to open his eyes.

“Yeah, I know,” says the first person - closer, now. Hands turn into arms and he feels himself being lifted in the air; his stomach flips inside him but despite his sudden fear of falling - or being dropped, or thrown? - he can’t find it in himself to move. “Grab the bag,” says the person carrying him.

“My place is closer than the Academy, we can take him there.”

“We should take him to Grace first.” 

“I have supplies at mine… why does he have a mannequin?”

“I think we need to talk…”

Uninterested, and slightly lulled by the gentle rocking motion of the person carrying him while walking, Five stops trying to listen.

### 

He’s being carried when he wakes up. 

His body goes tense before he forces himself to relax again, trying not to alert whoever’s carrying him to the fact that he’s awake. Instead, he tries to figure out what’s going on.

“How much further?” Asks one person - the one carrying him, he thinks.

“Five minutes.”

“I still think we should have taken him to Grace.” 

“You’re the one who said he freaked out this morning,” accuses the other man. 

“He still needs proper medical attention, Diego. You’re no doctor.”

“I can still help.”

Five cracks his eyes open. It’s dark, shadows bouncing wildly around him and he suppresses the urge to flinch away from them when it looks like they’re reaching right for him. He tilts his head slightly and catches sight of the man not carrying him. He stares straight ahead, leading the way, jaw set and eyes sharp. Light bounces off the knives strapped to him. 

Five looks up. The man carrying him is big - evident enough in the wide expanse of his shoulders and the pure height Five is at while being carried. He doesn’t look down at Five.

The both of them seem oddly familiar. He can’t quite place it.

The man not carrying him has his bag, and he can see Delores in it. She seems safe, unharmed, if a bit upset and being manhandled by the man carrying him. He tries to reach for her, but his hand falls in the air, weighing him down like an anvil.

“Five?” Says the man carrying Delores, catching the movement immediately and turning to look at him; the man carrying him looks down. 

“You’re awake,” he states, shifting his grip a little; pain flares in his stomach. “How are you feeling?”

“What happened, Five?”

His brain itches. He wishes Delores were closer, because she would know what’s going; would be able to fill the blanks in for him.

When he doesn’t respond, they ask the question again, a little more concern bleeding into their voices this time. 

They care. 

(Of course they care; it’s _them._ Their names just dance out of his reach.)

Unable to answer their questions, Five turns his attention to the hot throbbing pain in his stomach, and tries to tug up his shirt to find the problem underneath, but the man not carrying him ( _he knows him, he knows he does, just like he knows how to breathe_ ) reaches forwards and grabs his hand.

“Leave it alone, dumbass,” he says, no real spite to his voice. “You’ll make it worse.”

“Make - what?” His tongue feels thick in his mouth, heavy and uncooperative like the rest of his body. 

“You got shot,” says the man, frowning. “Remember?”

It sure feels like that. He tries to remember how that happened, and moments blur together - flashes of holding a gun, flashes of training, of pulling the trigger - but nothing makes sense right now. 

Fingers snap in front of his face and he flinches, drawn out of his thoughts, and he focuses his eyes back on -

_Oh._

Five knows who they are. Of course he does. 

He spent days burying them, after all.

“Oh,” he breathes, tension giving way to something like resignation, or perhaps defeat. 

“Five?” Says his brother, frowning at him. 

“You’re dead,” he mutters, feeling guilt bloom inside him. They’re dead, because he couldn’t save them. 

“What?” Asks Luther, pausing in his steps. 

Five thought Klaus was the only one supposed to be able to see ghosts. Unless Five was also one. It wouldn’t be surprising if he was also dead himself. Maybe that’s for the best.

“Couldn’t stop it… ‘m sorry. I thought I could,” he tells them. 

“What are you talking about, Five?”

His eyes catch Delores’. At least she’s here. He wishes he could reach her.

“Come on, let’s just get him to mine,” Diego says, nudging Luther a little and making him start walking again. The pace almost lulls Five back to sleep, but he clings to his consciousness for a little while longer. He curls his fingers into Luther’s coat, taking some small comfort in being reunited with siblings, even if they’re all dead because he couldn’t save them.

He blinks, and when he opens his eyes again, he’s being laid down onto something soft. The bed beneath him groans as Diego sits down beside him, moving his shirt out of his way. If Five had the energy, he would shove his hand away, feeling too much life he’s being coddled, but he hasn’t got the energy to do so, even when Diego touches him and draws pain from his stomach.

A hand taps his cheek, and he forces himself to meet Diego’s gaze. “You wish us?” He asks, eyebrows raised.

“Finally,” mutters Five, and Diego’s face twists in a mix of amusement and something sad.

“Yeah, about time,” he agrees quietly. “But we need your head in the game here, bro.”

Slightly confused, Five just stares at him with no response. He’s here, and there’s no ‘game’ anymore, if the apocalypse has already happened. Or did he avert it? Or has he lost his chance?

He’ll deal with that later, when he doesn’t feel so tired.

He’s only vaguely aware of Diego being called out of the room; hardly aware of Luther lingering by his side before reaching out with curious fingers to pick up a leather-bound book, sitting down with it and opening it to the first page, before he drifts off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it gets worse, huh


End file.
